Partners In Crime: Double O Canada
by Mandelene
Summary: Perhaps having a twin sibling wasn't all that bad. Especially when said siblings were as closely knit as hands and feet. America learns the frightening truth that there are some comforts only a brother can provide.
1. Honesty Is The Best Policy

**Author's Note: I feel as though Canada isn't noted nearly enough for his influence in America's life. So here's the start of a little series featuring the North American brothers. :) Enjoy.**

* * *

Arthur had thought that by now, he would have been better at this whole child rearing ordeal. He'd figured he'd wake up one morning to another day that was waiting to be lived on this grand planet, and _poof_, like magic, he'd be an expert at taking care of children. No more worrying about whether or not he was raising his little brothers correctly, teaching them at a fast enough pace, feeding them the maximum amount of nutritious food, or whether they were getting enough sleep. He would be Superbrother, fighting upset stomachs, nightmares and diaper rashes like a professional, clad with the luscious spoils of knowledge and experience to guide him through his tasks.

Yet, apparently, the delicate skill of parenting could not be mastered in such a menial way. He quickly learned that no matter how many parenting manuals he read, or how many lessons he had shoved down his throat, he would still worry about making mistakes, and those mistakes were inevitable in the path he was taking. And, rather than things getting easier as he went along, they just grew more difficult. New challenges would present themselves each day, and the problem solving puzzles that made themselves apparent grew more advanced as time ticked away.

And there were _always_ new lessons waiting to be learned.

* * *

Canada was pretty peeved to say in the least.

It took a lot to get the sweet, sheepish colony severely upset with someone, but somehow his twin brother had managed to do it without too much effort on his part at all. Anger bubbled inside his veins in a way he hadn't thought to be physically possible before as he watched America rocking happily in the backyard tree, Kumajirou hanging precariously from the American's hand. His bulky paw was entangled in the boy's fingers while the rest of his body was slung over a tree branch, threatening to take a tumble at any given moment, should his captor relinquish his hold.

"This isn't funny, America! Let Kuma go or I'm telling England!" Canada tried his best to shout, voice rising to levels that were uncharacteristically firm and strong. His eyes bore into his brother's, silently challenging him to defy his command. "You aren't even supposed to be climbing trees after that time you almost fell down," he said matter-of-factly.

"How do you know about that?" America frowned, eyes accusing.

"England told me," Canada huffed, crossing his arms and continuing to glower up the tree trunk.

"No fair! He wasn't supposed to tell you that!" America blushed, eyes growing hard. Truth be told, he had been extremely disobedient as of late for the sake of gaining attention from his eldest brother. England's time with him had been limited from the start due to his busy work schedule. Thus, it was completely unfair in America's eye that the man was now investing his time in Canada as well. He was far superior to the new colony, and their little group of two had been perfect before the addition. Surely, England cared for him more seeing as they'd been together longer. Nonetheless, America felt the need to make Canada's life a living hell as of late, and one way he had decided to achieve that goal was to steal Kumajirou while Canada's back was turned.

"I'm going to get England now," Canada sang threateningly from the base of the tree, taking a few steps backward to emphasize his point. He hid his hands behind his back and began wringing his fingers madly, uncomfortable with the loss of his cuddly companion. A day without Kumajirou was like a day without oxygen; impossible to survive.

Unwilling to give in so easily, America decided that he had to bring things up a notch. Obviously Canada was bluffing, and he wouldn't fall for that trick. "Fine, go ahead! See if I care! You're just a big baby for carrying this stupid stuffed bear around everywhere! What kind of nine year old takes his toy with him everywhere?"

That had stung Canada straight in the heart, his eyes shimmered for a moment, the formation of tears beginning to take place, but he quickly brushed the feeling away. He wouldn't be bullied by America this time. He was going to be assertive, and that meant he had to win this argument by standing his ground. He could be just as crude as his brother if he put his mind to it.

"Oh, yeah? At least I don't still believe in the Tooth Fairy!" Canada spat. "You were the one who cried last week when England forgot to put money under your pillow in exchange for your tooth."

America flushed, face growing as red as his favorite, scarlet-colored crayon. "NO!" he immediately denied. "England said the Tooth Fairy is real! She just was too busy to make it to all the kids who lost their teeth. You're just a liar!"

"And you call me the baby. What about Santa Clause? Santa isn't real either!" Canada went on, trying to be as venomous as possible.

America's eyes widened to the size of saucers. He gaped at his brother, mouth falling open comically. "S-Santa? Santa is real and always has been! Where do all the Christmas presents come from then, huh?" he asked pointedly, hoping to prove Canada wrong through his supposed 'flawless' logic.

Canada smiled deviously, knowing he could use this weakness to his advantage. "England buys the presents and puts them under the tree when we're asleep. Santa is not real."

A shrill shriek broke through the air at that comment, stomping all over England's golden rule of using 'indoor voices' whenever possible. "IS TOO! I put out a plate of cookies for him and everything!"

"Nope," Canada calmly replied, "England ate the cookies."

America seemed utterly affronted, shoulders shaking with suppressed rage. "I helped him bake those cookies; they were chocolate chip and everything! He wouldn't do that!"

"Would too."

"Would not!"

Canada grumbled under his breath, still anxiously waiting for his opportunity to rescue Kumajirou. He'd have to use cunning tactics and skilled strategy to get his companion back unharmed. It seemed like he was going to have to speed up the argument to make this easier. "And remember that time when England told you that your pet bunny ran away while you were at your friend's house? He lied because he didn't want you to be upset if he told you that he died."

"WHISKERS DIED?" America gasped, struggling to process his twin brother's words as he tried to catch his breath. In his frustration, he reeled his arm back before tossing Kumajirou as far away as he could, sending him hurtling through the air.

Frantically, Canada chased after the bear, making a dive toward the ground before successfully catching the beloved stuffed animal that had been bestowed upon him a long time ago. With a relieved sigh, he brushed himself off and stood up with Kumajirou at hand, checking him over for any damaged appendages. After giving the bear a full examination, the Canadian discovered that the right paw that America had been clinging to was torn at the seams.

He spun around on his heel and rounded on his brother, who had finally come down from the tree, with a renewed fury. "LOOK WHAT YOU DID!" he snarled, waving the 'broken' arm in front of the startled blue eyes of his sibling. "You broke him!"

America held his hands up as a sign of surrender. "I didn't—"

"Just shut up!" Canada barked, shoving America to the ground mercilessly. He deserved some sort of physical punishment for hurting Kumajirou! Maybe if his arm was broken, it'd make things even.

With a whimper, America sniffled softly, pride damaged upon being pushed to the dirt. His next course of action was supposed to be to push Canada back; instigating a fight, but then the little colony turned his hands palm up and found them to be littered in tiny, crisscrossed cuts from where he had directed the brunt of the fall. Upon seeing a tiny streak of blood blossoming from the burning scrapes, he wailed loudly, screaming bloody murder. Canada was going to pay for this mutiny, and England would shower America with attention in return. Maybe if he howled loud enough, England would give Canada back to France.

It took no less than twenty seconds for England to come rushing into the backyard, searching worriedly for the source of the sounds of distress. Upon finding America on the ground, he rushed over and kneeled before him, attempting to brush the frantic boy's tears away.

America tried to keep up his hysterics, recognizing the expression in his eldest brother's eyes that cleared depicted his mother-hen mode. He knew England could get very protective when his colony's welfare or safety was compromised, which meant that the situation was favoring the American's side.

"Now, now, settle down. What's wrong, love?" England frowned, tenderly lifting America's hands in his own and assessing the battle wounds. "What did I tell you about running in the yard?"

"I wasn't running! C-Canada pushed me!" America shouted through his waterfall of tears, snot running down his nose. There was no way England would let Canada stay now!

England furrowed, filled with both suspicion and shock. He turned his head to interrogate the other child. "Canada, is this true?"

"Y-Yes, but he hurt Kumajirou!" Canada rushed to explain, hoping that the fact that his bear had been injured validated the damage he'd inflicted on his brother.

"I didn't mean too!" America lied coolly, still holding his offending palms out and in front of him. For greater emphasis, he rubbed at his eyes and pouted ever so slightly. His doe-like eyes had turned red-rimmed and puffy, gazing up expectantly at England. Justice had to be served.

"Yes, you did!" Canada objected, squeezing Kumajirou with all his might.

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!" America feigned a well-timed sob, breath hitching. The elder nation had always had a soft spot in his heart for that single, helpless hiccup of anguish.

"That's quite enough, boys!" England finally interjected sternly, lifting up America into his arms and outstretching one hand toward Canada. "Give me the toy, Canada."

With a hesitant look, Canada gave up Kumajirou for the second time that day, all the while looking very displeased. It wasn't fair that he was being punished for the crime that America had committed in the first place. Every wrong he had done was all for Kumajirou's safety. So in a way, this had all been a form of self-defense.

"Everyone inside, now," England ordered, walking with America into the house while Canada trailed behind them with an extremely unhappy expression resting on his face. Why did he always have to be the one to get the short-end of the stick? America was always getting the easy and lenient way out of everything.

When they had all entered the house, they headed for the kitchen, where England began his lecture.

"I'm very disappointed in both of you. You both know that I do not tolerate fighting in this house. I'm stunned that either of you would even consider inflicting any type of damage on each other, whether it be verbal or physical," England chided while he set America down on the ground and ordered him to rinse his hands thoroughly in the sink. The cold water splashing onto the fresh scratches sent America hissing in pain, but England did not relent in his efforts to clean the child up.

"I'm especially disappointed in you, Canada. Since when have you decided to start causing trouble?" England asked disapprovingly, directing a frown in his newest colony's direction. "I see America has been a bad influence on you."

America took his turn to look offended at the assumption, scowling at his older brother.

Meanwhile, Canada was still trying to plead his defense. "America started it. He stole Kumajirou and—"

"I don't wish to hear the rest of the story," England suspended the conversation. "I simply want you two to behave yourselves from now on, but I know that's too much to ask. As your guardian, I have to reiterate it anyway. Now, please _try_ to get along."

America and Canada grumbled in unison. "That's not likely…"

"Still, I'm afraid there will have to be some sort of punishment for the ruckus that has been caused today. I've been far too permitting of these antics lately because I know that you boys are still adjusting to this major change. However, I'd have thought that you two would have adapted by now," England sighed, plastering a few bandages onto America's hands before deeming him fit to take a seat with Canada at the kitchen table for the rest of the lecture.

"Are you going to send Canada back to France?" America immediately questioned excitedly, face brightening considerably in unison with Canada's.

England knit his brows together, flustered. "Of course not. Where on earth did you get that idea?"

Canada sighed.

"But he pushed me!" America puffed through a sharply drawn breath, holding up his marred hands once more for further, concrete evidence.

England could not repress his smirk. "And how many times have you gotten yourself into far deeper trouble, young man?"

Pensive, America began counting on his fingers, recalling the many lectures he'd endured in the past. With a bashful smile he blinked at England's knowing expression before responding. "Uh, a lot… Does that time when I drew a picture on your really important papers count?"

England chuckled lightly, dropping his head into his hands. "What am I going to do with you boys? The fact of the matter is, I'm not going to send Canada away simply because he was being troublesome. If that had been the case, I would've shipped you off a long time ago, America."

"Hey!" America blew a raspberry.

"Regardless, I'm afraid you'll have to skip out on dessert today, Canada," England announced, trying not to be too hard on his new colony as he studied the damage done to the child's toy. It was nothing a quick sewing session couldn't fix.

America tried not to look too triumphant at the news, though he couldn't conceal his smug features.

"That goes for you as well, America."

"WHAT?" he exclaimed, face incredulous as he watched a tight smile growing on Canada's face.

England held up a reprimanding finger. "Don't use that astonished tone with me. Canada mentioned that you were the one who stole his bear in the first place. Therefore, you are just as guilty as he is."

America sputtered. "B-But… But—"

"No buts."

Canada found a spot to jump in, feeling awfully courageous all of a sudden. Personally, it was frightening him. Was he really becoming a rebel? "You forgot to mention the tree, America."

With a glare, America sent daggers at his twin. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you feeling okay, Canada? Did Kumajirou eat your brains?"

England hastily investigated without skipping a beat. "What about the tree? You weren't climbing it, were you, America? I don't suggest lying because I shall find out eventually."

"Um, it's really a funny story… I-I… I've got nothing. Coming up with excuses is getting really hard," America resigned, deciding to be honest.

"No dessert for a week," England added to the punishment. "I thought you'd learnt your lesson the last time you climbed a tree."

"That's not fair! _You_ don't deserve dessert after all the lies you've told me. I know that Whiskers died, that the Tooth Fairy isn't real, and that you're Santa Clause! Canada told me!" America protested discontentedly.

England frowned at Canada. He had been hoping to keep America oblivious until early adulthood, but that dream had clearly been destroyed. "That was different."

"No, it's still lying!" America incriminated.

England shifted a hand through his hair, wondering when those silver strands would start popping up as a direct result of America's questions over the years. He couldn't very well tell a child that lying was okay to do in certain situations; just imagine all the future chaos that would instill.

"Yes, I lied, and that was wrong of me to do. I had thought that I was protecting you, but it was a mistake. Even adults can make mistakes on occasion," England admitted smoothly, hoping America would simply let it go and move on.

"Well, you're in big trouble, mister!" America shouted, trying to make his voice deep and intimidating. "Go make your little brothers ice cream to make it up to them, right now!"

England chuckled, snatching America out of his chair and planting a final, healing kiss to the scraped hands. "I applaud your efforts, but I'm afraid that's not how it works. Now, take Canada with you and get washed up before helping me with dinner."

Canada held back the temptation to shudder at the fact that he'd have to survive another one of England's bland meals. He yearned for France's flavorful cuisine, but until he would get that opportunity again, he'd just have to settle on helping England make something reasonably edible for the night.

Despite the earlier fiasco, he knew progress was being made. Also, this newfound rivalry with America wouldn't be all too bad either. Being reunited with his twin brother had been quite startling at first, but he was beginning to understand the devious mind of his twin more and more each day. And heck, if America wanted to play, two could play at that game.

This was war.


	2. The Birth Of A Hero

**Author's Note: Some of these events may or may not be loosely based on my own childhood escapades with my older sister.**

* * *

_From the beginning, he had underestimated his own power._

_But Canada knew better. _

"Oh, look! _Lucioles_!" Canada exclaimed with glee as he rushed into the backyard, followed by England and America, hands outstretched toward the sky as he hopped around in the grass, reaching for the little, glowing lights that floated across the sunset-toned heavens.

America frowned, tilting his head in confusion at the flickering, yellow lights. "Oh, you mean fireflies?"

Canada nodded, eyes still sparkling with wonder as a firefly landed on his arm.

"I've always referred to them as lightning bugs," England smiled from behind, carefully holding out his palm and scooping up an insect with ease. "There aren't many back at my residence in Europe." Gingerly, the man clasped his hands together to prevent the creature's escape and kneeled down to America's height to show him the captive animal.

"Wow!" America gasped, amazed that England had managed to capture one without any trouble. "I want to try next!"

England offered his colony a wistful smile, opening his hands and allowing the bug to glide its way back through the cherry-streaked sky as the sun began to hide under the protection of the horizon. "Very well, but be gentle. We mustn't hurt them."

But America hadn't taken the warning to heart as he should have. Without a single hesitant glance back in his guardian's direction, he sprinted forward and clapped his hands together toward the direction of one of the flies. He reeled his hands back toward his chest and separated them, only to find a severely comatose companion resting in his palms.

"Be careful!" Canada tried to cry out upon witnessing the scene, extremely frazzled. He swept his way over to his brother and caught a glimpse of the injured bug before shooting him an icy look. "You always break and ruin everything!"

America stood speechless, hands shaking as he observed the motionless bug. He hadn't meant to be so rough with the fragile thing. Guilt instantly began bubbling in the very depths of his stomach. For a moment, he was afraid that he was going to be sick. "It's just a stupid bug! What does it matter anyway? It's so tiny and there are hundreds of them!"

Canada plucked the bug out of his hands and stroked it for a moment before its light began to flicker wearily once more, lethargic and still frightened from how it had been mishandled. "That doesn't mean it isn't important," he whispered in reply to his brother. Sympathetically, he placed the bug on the lowest leaf he could find, giving it a moment to recuperate before pointedly glaring at America once more.

England sighed softly, still kneeling in the grass, keeping an eye on his charges. He motioned for America to come and join him before embracing him in a soothing hug, assuring the child that no serious damage had been done. From his spot by the familiar tree in the yard, Canada looked stern.

"Neither of us understands our capabilities," the emerald-eyed nation murmured into the child's hair.

_At the time, he hadn't understood the meaning behind England's words._

* * *

"Would you boys like some tea or biscuits?" England asked thoughtfully one afternoon from the doorway, amusement clear in his expression.

"No, England! We're _camping_! We can't have tea while we're camping!" America said exasperatedly, fumbling around the little fort of pillows and blankets that he and Canada had built in the living room. Among the "campsite" were scattered storybooks and toys as well as some camping gear that included rope and a lantern.

"Why not? There's never a poor time to have some tea," England established smoothly, maneuvering his way through the mess of scattered supplies before approaching the entrance of the makeshift tent. Inside, America had a book on various star constellations out for him and Canada to decipher. "May I join you boys?"

Canada smiled happily, giggling at the idea of England camping with them from his corner of the tent. He blinked at the man in admiration, hoping America would let him play along.

"No," America finally huffed in response, readjusting the book in his lap. "No adults allowed."

England turned his jade-eyed gaze toward Canada, studying him for a moment. "Is that so? I suppose I'll be on my way then," the nation obliged, departing the tent without further inquiry.

That is, until America suggested they zip up the tent for the night and pretend to sleep. The two colonies hefted a blanket over the pillow fort and veiled the entrance to their little hut, hunkering down for the "night". Then, they each closed their eyes and pretended to sleep, suddenly aware of how quiet the house had become without their constant chatting. A stilled silence came over them, leaving the pair of twins blinking uncertainly at each other in hushed fear.

Then, in the midst of the boys' silent conversation, something banged roughly against the side of their fort. Swiftly, America shot up into a sitting position, eyes wide with anticipation. "What was that?" he whispered to Canada, who shrugged his shoulders in response.

"Fee-fi-fo-fum," England growled with a husky lilt, thumping his feet against the wooden floorboards loudly to signal his approach.

"It's a grizzly bear!" America cried out, playing along. Canada rolled his eyes at his brother, but decided to join in on the game as well. The pair crawled their way to the door of their fort, uncharacteristically silent and timid.

"I smell the blood of British colonies,  
Be they live, or be they dead  
I'll grind their bones to make my bread!" England roared just a few feet from the fort, slowly reaching out a hand and gripping the blanket that was covering the entrance. He could hear the stifled giggles of America and Canada inside, waiting for the attack. Then, he ripped away the blanket and tossed it aside, preparing himself for the chase.

Immediately, both boys let out hollers of terror, jumping up and dashing out of the fort. America ran to the right and Canada ran to the left, both stopping at the corners of the walls to see who England would decide to go after first.

It seemed that Canada was going to be the first victim as England sprinted after him, watching as the little boy circled once around the room before hurdling up the stairs right behind America. The eldest nation beat Canada to the fifth step, snatching him up by the collar of his shirt and pulling him towards his chest.

"NO! Not Canada! He was so young!" America wailed in mock grief, reaching out a hand to pull Canada back toward himself. "Let him go, you big meanie!"

"Never!" England cackled as Canada squirmed in his arms, trying to latch himself onto America to break free. Then, with a burst of exhilaration, America sped forward and tugged on England's leg, forcing him to let go of Canada in order to grab the banister to regain his balance on the steps.

"Hurry! Run!" America shrieked, grabbing Canada's wrist and jerking him forward. "He's still coming!" They rounded the corner and slid into England's master bedroom, splitting up once more as America hid in the closet and Canada crawled under the bed.

England panted slightly as he finally reached the bedroom, a smile still working its way onto his lips. Smiling was a rare gesture that was only reserved for the boys. "Fee-fi-fo-fum… I smell the blood of British colonies…"

Canada squeaked from under the bed, gaining England's attention. The man cautiously made his way over to the source of the noise, moving the bedcovers aside and extracting a nervous Canadian from under the springs of the mattress.

"My dinner has arrived," England snarled, still using his guttural voice as he adjusted Canada in his arms and nuzzled his hair. "This fresh catch is worthy of a _king_."

Jokingly, he took hold of Canada's thumb and pretended to take a large bite out of it. The colony wiggled and laughed hysterically in England's clutches, his face a rosy red.

At that, America opened the door to the closet and joined the laughing pair, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, looking awfully glum as his eyes wandered around the lavish room. By the time he had snapped out of his daydream, Canada had already been put down on the ground and ordered to wash up for lunch, leaving him and England alone. The man took a seat next to his other colony, placing a tender hand on his shoulder. "Something on your mind, my dear boy?"

America's face scrunched up uncertainly, cowlick still standing proudly on his head. "Will I ever be a king, England?"

England frowned, eyes growing slightly concerned. "America, you know that you are a colony, not a government official. Likewise, I am a nation, not the head of a monarchy."

America nodded, eyes still perturbed. "I know. It was a stupid question… I just wanted to make sure…"

"Make sure of what, pray tell?"

America stood from the bed and stretched out on his tippy toes, eyes pensive as his gaze roamed upon the various picture frames aligned on England's drawer. He spotted a speckled, monochrome picture of him as a toddler among them. "I wanted to make sure that I'll never be anything great. I'm just a colony… That's all I'll ever be. I'm not a king or a hero; I'm just me."

England pursed his lips, taken aback by America's musings. "And what's so wrong with being the way you are?"

America's melancholy azure eyes fell to look at the ornate design on the carpet. "I don't know. It just doesn't feel right. I feel like there's more that I need to be doing."

"America, you're still just a child. There's little more that you _can _be doing."

America dipped his head in agreement, shuffling his way out of the room to find Canada.

"What has gotten into that boy?" England asked himself softly.

* * *

_He'd been a hero before he'd even acknowledged it. _

"Hey! Best two out of three! No fair! Slow down and wait for m—Oomph!"

America face-planted into the snow, earning himself a mouthful of ice as one of his skates slid off of his foot. He lifted his freezing skin up to meet the world again, shivering madly in the midst of the winter wonderland that he had found himself encased in. Grudgingly, he put his skate back on.

An entertained laugh rang out above his head before a gloved hand reached down to help him up. He accepted the gesture without a second thought, pulling himself uneasily back onto his own two feet. He wobbled in place for a moment, still trying to get accustomed to traversing around on ice skates.

Canada bit his bottom lip to contain his sheepish grin. "I told you that chasing each other while skating wasn't a good idea."

America brushed the snow off of his soggy pants, knowing that England was going to have a conniption as soon as he witnessed his colony's sorry state. He had to clean himself up as best as he could. "I still can't believe you caught me! I'm ten times a better skater than you are."

Canada scoffed. "Sure you are."

America pouted. "Anyway, I don't want to skate anymore. I'm cold." He'd had enough of winter kicking his butt for one day. He must have taken a nosedive into the snow and ice about six times already.

"Oh, don't be such a sore loser," Canada teased. "You just want to go home because you don't want me to win again."

"Nuh-uh," America denied feverishly, beginning to skate down the length of the lake to make it back to the house. He kept close to the edge of the ice, hoping that if he would fall again, he'd fall on softer snow and grass. "It's just that it's almost dinnertime and I'm starving."

Canada snickered. "You're always starving, aren't you? Hold on, I want to show you a trick that France taught me when I was younger." He was becoming so much more confident in front of America; something he'd never been able to accomplish in front of anyone else, not even France or England. His timidity just seemed to dissolve whenever he was playing with his hyperactive twin.

"Okay, but don't show off and brag about how much better you are than me," America whined, stopping in his retreat toward the house to see what his brother wanted to show him. He watched as Canada moved to the middle of the lake and prepared himself to perform an axel. He circled around a few times and gained some speed before preparing for the jump, finally feeling at home and in his element on the ice.

But America had been the only one to notice the cracks on the surface of the ice.

His heart banged with life as he rushed forward on teetering legs, barely able to hold himself up on the skates. He watched in horror as Canada skidded over the delicate patch of ice and leaped into the air to perform his trick.

Suddenly, America could not even find his voice to shout out a warning, and he nosedived for the seventh time that day, bulldozing Canada out of the way as the boy's feet made contact with the ice and split it into multiple shards.

Canada fell over and slid toward the grass from the impact, managing to avoid falling into the freezing temperature of the water.

His brother had not been as lucky.

The cracking sound of the ice echoed over and over in Canada's mind as he tried to find a way to help America out of the water without falling in as well. The broken ice had left the entire lake exposed, leaving his twin brother heaving and forcing his lungs to work as his body took in the shock of the dunking. His numb hands messily groped around for a piece of ice to latch onto and lift himself up, but the attempt was futile seeing as his clothes were dragging him down, and every surface around him was too slippery to latch onto. He was surrounded by ice on both sides, making it impossible for him to simply swim to the edge of the lake and stumble his way over to the grass.

Canada quickly deduced that going in to save America by himself was a suicide wish on both their parts. So, with no other option left, Canada kicked off his skates and made a run for the house in his socks, screaming for England to come outside and help them. He'd never shouted so frantically and loudly in his life, amazed by the firmness and power of his own voice as he finally made it to the front doorstep.

Thankfully, before he even reached the door itself, England came bursting out of the house in his coat, grabbing Canada by the shoulders and sternly asking him what the problem was.

Canada opened his mouth and proceeded to stutter incoherently for the most part. "A-A-America fell through the ice! I t-tried to—h-help him, but—"

He couldn't remember a time he'd seen England more frightened than he had been in that moment. The nation had made it to the lake in lightning speed, eyes wide as he watched his precious America flailing around in the water, still trying to keep his grip on a piece of ice with his fingernails.

He fell to his knees by the edge of the lake, careful not to touch the ice should he break it and make the situation even worse. He had to remain calm for America's sake. America needed him to help him, not to hyperventilate.

"E-England!" America quivered. His face blanched and his bones grew tired as his body began to weaken.

"I need you to listen to me America," England began firmly, tone steady. "I want you to put your elbows on the ice and kick your legs as though you are swimming. Turn your body horizontally and try to throw yourself over the edge of the ice. It should be strong enough to hold you up."

Although extremely panicky, America managed to do as he was told, throwing his upper abdomen over the side of the ice and trying to carry his suddenly heavy legs along with him. Shivers racked through his body as England tried to talk him through the process calmly, encouraging him to keep trying. When his body had finally gotten back onto the solid ice, England warned America not to stand, and advised him to roll over instead. Feeling ridiculous, but not testing his older brother's judgment, America followed the instructions to the best of his ability, finally making it to England's side after his lips had turned a formidable hue of blue.

"Oh, dear god," England exhaled as he tore off his coat and wrapped it around America, trying desperately to keep him warm. He easily hoisted the child up and rushed him into the house, barking commands at Canada as he set America on the couch and began peeling off his wet clothing.

"Light a fire in the fireplace and start a warm bath upstairs, Canada. Not too hot, it has to be lukewarm. Do as I say," England muttered in between soothing coos directed at America. "Quickly!" he added, collecting any spare blankets within a six yard radius. He was careful to never leave the child's side for more than a few seconds. "And some tea! We need tea!"

America curled his lip up in disdain as best as he could. "N-No tea... Sick of t-tea."

"Nonsense," England countered dismissively as the fireplace roared with life, thanks to Canada's administrations. "If you ever scare me like this again America…"

America mustered a tired smile. "I k-know… You'll send me to U-Uncle Scotland's house so he c-can make me work in the f-fields…"

"And you'd best not forget it," England hissed, lifting up America once more to carry him into the upstairs bathroom. He thanked Canada absently as he lowered America into the designated bathwater gradually, helping his body warm up.

Not wanting America to get the chance to talk to him or to question him, Canada sped out of the room to go and tend to the tea.

Meanwhile, America shuddered as England rubbed his feet and submersed them repeatedly to bring some feeling back into the frozen limbs.

"How in the world did you manage to fall through the ice?"

Not wanting to rat Canada out for attempting to demonstrate a possibly dangerous trick, America kept his mouth shut and merely claimed that he should have been more careful in choosing the spots where his butt landed multiple times on the ice.

"Skating was never your forte," England consoled with a wistful look, ruffling America's hair. "Thank goodness you're alright and in one piece."

America shivered once more, goose bumps appearing on his arms as his body finally became accustomed to the shifts in temperature. Perhaps England would never find out what had really happened that day; how America had possibly saved Canada's life from ending prematurely.

And as England settled America down into an armchair beside the fireplace with a cup of tea at hand, Canada realized that he would never again mock or question America's heroic incentives. If anything, he'd indulge them.

Because after all, America truly had been his silent hero.

And he knew that he would never look at his brother the same way again.


	3. Skeletons In The Library

**Author's Note: This chapter contains some historical references from the writings of an old English philosopher named John Locke during the Age of Enlightenment. He is commonly called the **_**Father of Classical Liberalism**_** due to his leftist views. **

* * *

_He rarely slept easily._

Canada dolefully nibbled on his lower lip, uncertainly shaking his brother's sweaty shoulder to wake him from his nightmare. He waited patiently as America's figure tossed and turned a few more times for good measure before stiffening once more. Another nudge to the ribs sent him reeling back to reality, his bleary eyes meeting the darkness of the stuffy room.

"W-What happened?" America mumbled, disgruntled as he ran a clammy hand over an equally clammy forehead.

Canada stood from the edge of America's bed and neared the window, cracking it open to allow a crisp breeze into the room. "You had a bad dream."

America ground his teeth together, shivering as the cool gust of wind brushed against his moist skin. He watched as Canada peered out the window, noting the early signs of spring that had come upon them during the past week.

"I want England or I won't be able to go back to sleep."

Canada smirked through the moon-lit bedchamber, leaning on the nightstand in thought. "Aren't you getting too old to be asking England for help?"

America flushed in obvious embarrassment, pulling the covers up to his chin as he tried to formulate a good comeback that could defend his stubborn pride. He tried not to look too shamefaced. "It's not like that! I just—"

"I was kidding," Canada interjected with a pleasant smile. "But England's probably exhausted, and we should let him sleep. Besides, I have something that might help." He rummaged around in his small desk drawer for a moment before pulling out a small snow-globe and bringing it over to America's bed. He plopped himself next to his brother and wound up the gadget before it began to chime a soft melody that America did not recognize. He imagined that the sound was mimicking the voices of the stars, twinkling and dancing in the burnished sky. He listened as the lullaby went on, suddenly feeling very heavy and light all at once.

Canada regarded the toy wistfully, eyes reflective. "It's pretty isn't it? France gave it to me before I could even talk. He'd wind it up to help me sleep every night." Eventually, the chiming tones died down, leaving an emptiness that America hadn't realized he'd acquired. He nodded at Canada appreciatively for the comforting gesture, intrigued by the fact that his brother had held onto the artifact all this time.

"I like to think of France humming along to the tune sometimes. I know you probably don't realize it very often, but you're lucky to have a big brother like England; I still miss France every day."

America frowned at that, drawing his knees up to his chest. "But England leaves for Europe in the morning. It's different to have to say goodbye to your brother one time than to have to say goodbye to him every few months. Saying goodbye is the worst feeling in the world."

Canada nodded empathetically, allowing America to slump onto his shoulder in dejection. "But he'll be back. He always comes back."

America shook his head, voice faltering as he gazed up at the white-faced ceiling. "That's what I'm afraid of. What if one day, he doesn't come back?"

"Is that why you've been having nightmares?"

He preferred not to answer, so Canada took his silence to mean _yes_. Wordlessly, America curled into a tight ball on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut in pure agony. He knew there was nothing he could do to keep England from leaving in a few hours. His departure was inevitable, but for some odd reason, this departure felt more painful than all the rest.

"He loves you, America. He would never abandon you," Canada whispered faintly, placing a hand on his brother's back.

America struggled to open his eyes, irritation working its way into his nagging mind for a number of reasons. "Oh, really? Then why did France abandon you?"

"That was taking it too far," Canada deadpanned, jolting upright and clamoring his way back to his own bed. With an air of outrage, he didn't care if America felt terrible or not any longer. He shouldn't have stooped so low. He bundled himself up in his own blankets and covers, refusing to allow America's crankiness affect him.

Yet, when he heard stifled whimpers growing in frequency throughout the night, he reached over to the side table once more and wound up the musical snow globe, starving the tempers of both twins as the sky began to bruise with the dawn's early light once again.

* * *

_This would be the final tearful goodbye on America's part._

Canada wasn't sure that he'd ever witnessed America as upset as he had been during that gray morning. Dark clouds rolled in to block out the seemingly smoldering sun. Those blue eyes had been brimming with silent anguish since the moment he'd awakened that same morning. America had wrapped his arms around England's torso, begging him not to go as he clung to the rough fabric of the formerly crease-less shirt. He inhaled his elder brother's scent of stale tobacco and peppermints, forcing himself to memorize it before he grew too old to remember. Gentle fingers combed through dark blond strands reassuringly as America hiccupped into the broad shoulder before him.

"There, there," England had muttered for the umpteenth time. "I won't be gone for long. You won't even notice my disappearance with Canada here to keep you company."

Canada stood awkwardly in the corner of the room, wondering whether or not he was going to be expected to intervene. He had inwardly forgiven America for last night's comments, but that didn't mean he was feeling particularly sentimental today. In fact, he was anything but.

"Now, promise me you won't cause the nannies and maids any trouble. I shall be kept updated on everything that goes on in this house. And, I expect a letter from you at some point before my return, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," America sniffled wetly, wishing he could just cling to England forever and never have to let him go.

England contemplated him approvingly. "Alright then, I best be on my way." He enveloped America in his arms securely and planted a chaste kiss on his brow (which the colony promptly rubbed off in disgust). He smiled in adoration and said, "Stay safe, my boy."

Canada received a warm hug as well, though the hushed goodbyes hadn't been nearly as emotional. The pair of colonies watched as England waved a final goodbye to them and stepped out the door, leaving the boys in the care of "experienced professionals" with "impressive credentials". As soon as silence had filled the household once more, America ran off upstairs to hide from the remainder world for the next few hours.

It was going to be a tough couple of months.

* * *

"Bull's-eye!" America snickered, having successfully chucked a grape squarely at Canada's forehead. The latter of the two narrowed his eyes into a scowl and lifted his own bowl of grapes into the air, practically launching the entire contents in America's direction until the nanny, Clarisse, stopped him midway into his assault.

"Hey! That'll be enough of that, thank you very much," she huffed, removing the bowl from Canada's hands and carrying it away. "Shouldn't you boys start making your way to the marketplace? Lord Kirkland expects you both to be lending a hand with the shopping."

"Yes ma'am," America replied apologetically. He excused himself from the table and collected his coat before racing his way to the front door. "Hurry up, Mattie, or all of the crunchiest apples will be gone!" He'd finally gotten used to using Canada's human name around the house again to protect their identities from Clarisse.

In weary defeat, Canada obliged and followed his brother out into the foyer, hoping to get back at him for that betrayal in the kitchen.

Clarisse bustled after them, making sure their coats were properly buttoned before unlocking the door for them. "Now, you are to go straight to the market and back. No dawdling without me to chaperone you."

"Yeah, yeah, fine," America snarled under his breath, extremely tired of being treated like fragile porcelain constantly. If England saw so much as a single paper-cut on him upon his return, he'd have Clarisse fired before even giving her a chance to explain.

"Right, then, run along," she finally shooed, shutting the door softly behind them.

America wasted no time in taking advantage of his freedom; he sped through the yellow-grass and chilly spring air without hesitation, racing Canada to the giant oak tree just outside the entrance to the marketplace. The two sprinted across the grassy hills and cobblestone paths, panting as they raced neck-and-neck. The sun was high in the sky as they competed, beating down on their backs and they neared their destination. Simultaneously, they stuck out their arms to touch the wood of the bark, but got their feet ensnared together during the process, tumbling over each other and somersaulting the final feet to the tree.

"Ouch," America griped, panting heavily as he wiped his dirt-covered hands against his pants (a habit England had been trying to get him to break for quite some time). He chuckled lightly as Canada pulled himself together, Kumajirou stuffed under the protection of one of his arms as he choked on some air, trying to catch his breath.

America produced a cheesy grin, cheeks red with fatigue. "Let's call it a draw?"

Canada coughed once more and cleared his throat before speaking. "No way, I was going to win."

"You wish."

"When will you admit defeat?"

"Never!"

Canada grinned as well, picking himself up off the grass and making his way over to the carts and stands of food to complete the errand that had been so graciously bestowed upon them. America spotted his favorite red apples instantly, as though he had installed some sort of tracking device into the fruits. He pulled out the money in his pockets and paid for half a dozen of them, stowing them into a small burlap sack and hefting them over his shoulder. He let Canada deal with scavenger hunt of finding the corn, bread and tea that they also needed.

America waited for his twin by the same oak tree that they had raced to just a few yards away, munching on one of the juicy apples to kill time. The sun shone in his eyes as the market buzzed with people and energy, inwardly filling him with awe as he watched colonists conversing and exchanging goods in the tranquility of the day.

That is, until he saw a scrawny boy with hungry, gray eyes staring greedily at some fresh loaves of bread. America watched as the younger child circled the area behind the stand of grains, waiting like a stealthy cat for the perfect moment to swipe his prey. The boy observed silently as a tall man caught the merchant's attention, creating the perfect distraction. Then, the slim boy stretched out his small fingers and grabbed a loaf before casually walking away in the opposite direction, admiring his catch.

With serious eyes, America hid his bag of apples behind the tree and went after the little thief, capturing him by the wrist. "Wait," he urged in a sharp whisper.

_Somewhere in the close distance, he heard Canada calling his human name; searching for him_.

The little boy's oval eyes gazed up at him in horror, frightened at being caught.

"We don't steal from others," America chided mildly, taking the bread from the shorter child's hand. "I know you're hungry, so I'll pay for the bread as long as you promise not to steal again."

The boy quivered uncertainly, tears streaming down his cheeks as he reluctantly nodded, surrendering his prize.

"HEY! What are you doing bugging my little brother?" a hearty voice rang out, nearing the pair by the second. A large, beefy adolescent with a freckled face came into view, followed by a few of his equally colossus friends. "The kid has to eat and so do the rest of us. He's stealing to feed the family, so why don't you keep your rotten hands off of him?"

America stood his ground, straightening his posture to bring himself to his full height. "_I'm_ not the one with the rotten hands. If you were a half-decent brother you'd teach him to work for his food. Instead, you've got him ripping off some hard-working people."

"What did you say to me, you milksop?"

America frowned. 'Milksop' was colonial slang for someone who was pampered and usually pompous. It literally stood for "bread soaked in milk". Truthfully, he _was_ well-fed and well-kept, but that didn't mean he was oblivious to the needs of others. He understood that peasant children were desperate to feed themselves, but he still wasn't going to tolerate thievery. He was even willing to pay for the food, if the jerk wasn't so incorrigible.

"You heard what I said."

A vein seemed to pulsate in the teenager's forehead; his oversized hands reaching down to wrap themselves around America's neck, strangling him as he slammed the younger into the nearest fence post.

"Spoiled rich kids like you are poisoning the rest of us," he growled, sour breath rolling off his tongue and making America grimace between futile attempts at releasing himself.

"_Alfred? Where are you?"_

America tried to call out to Canada for help, but could scarcely breathe as it was, his face turning cherry red as his pupils dilated, frantic for release. And then, just as the world was starting to tilt on its side, he kicked at his captor, falling to solid ground as the older boy dropped him in shock. America was left heaving and choking on his own saliva as he inhaled fervently. Then, a muddy boot collided with the side of his face, leaving him writhing in the grass.

"Matt—Matthew!" he cried out as soon as he had found his voice once more. He couldn't remember the last time he'd called Canada by his full, first name, but he'd never been more relieved to see those lavender eyes peeking out around the corner and rushing over to his side. He stood in a defensive stance beside his twin, shielding him from further injury. Shakily, America rose to his knees, still dizzy as he swiped at his sore face.

"Stop it!" the little boy with the gray eyes had finally spoken up, running up to his teenaged brother. "No more fighting!"

The North American twins stood side by side, unsure of whether or not they should run from the scene or not. They were physically only eleven years old and stood no chance against the muscly teens, no matter if they were nations or not.

Yet, America didn't want to seem to give in just yet, even though an ugly bruise had started to form around his left eye where the boot had made contact. It was obvious that this was one fight that was better to be finished with a hasty retreat.

"Alfred, come on. Let's go," Canada pleaded urgently, grabbing his brother by the arm and dragging him away from the small crowd of children. "It isn't worth it."

America chose not to comment, but directed a final death glare in the direction of the teens, vowing to himself that he would be ready to truly stand up for himself when he was older and stronger. So, he followed Canada back to the oak tree and retrieved his hidden apples before trudging back down the road to the house, face still stinging from that little adventure.

It was time for America to toughen up.

And he knew just where to start.

* * *

"I just need you to cover me for an hour, is that too much to ask of my _amazing _brother?" America batted his eyelashes innocently, his cowlick causing him to look all the more harmless.

"Yes," Canada rebutted indifferently. "I don't think I can keep Clarisse distracted for that long. You haven't even told me what you're up to, so how can I trust you?"

America slumped his shoulders, exhaling a long, upwards breath that made his bangs flutter. "Okay, okay. I want to sneak into England's 'forbidden' library. He keeps it locked all the time and I want to know what's inside."

"Why would you want to know that?"

"Because… Just because!"

"So what am I going to tell Clarisse?"

America sat on his bed thoughtfully, holding his chin as he tried to conjure up the perfect excuse to keep Clarisse out of England's office and adjoining library for the next hour or so.

"Tell her you don't feel well and make her stay in our room to take care of you," he finally suggested, cracking his fingers and rubbing his hands together.

Canada looked less than enthusiastic about his role. "I don't want to do that! What if she gives me some kind of herbal medicine and sends a letter to England?"

"She won't do that," America promised firmly, removing a spare hairpin that he had taken from Clarisse's guest bedroom and shoving it into his pocket. "Just keep her busy. I'll grab a few books from the library and let you know when I'm done."

Canada grew slack-jawed. "You're going to willingly _read_? Are you sure _you're _not the one who's actually sick?"

America rolled his eyes. "Shut up. I'll see you later."

"You owe me."

"I know. I'll give you all the cookies I take from the cookie jar at night for a week."

Canada weighed his options for a moment before nodding. "Alright, I'll call her up here now. She has to see you and send you away to play or something before you do anything or she'll just come looking for you to make sure you're not sick as well."

"Wow, Matt, you've really thought this through," America winked, sprawling out on his bed and trying to look natural as he flipped through an old scrapbook of pictures.

"Wait here," Canada ordered, heading out of the room and disappearing for a few minutes before returning with Clarisse in tow, fussing over him and ordering him to get into bed. She tucked the covers around him snuggly before feeling his forehead once more.

"You don't feel warm, but that doesn't mean a fever won't develop later on," Clarisse clicked her tongue.

America prayed that Canada's acting skills were up to par.

"My throat…" he whined pathetically, massaging his neck with both hands in feigned despair.

"I know, dear. I'll bring you up some hot tea in a moment," Clarisse soothed, fluffing up Canada's pillows.

America tried not to crack a smile.

"And Alfred?" Clarisse asked, turning to him. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

"I'm okay. Is Matthew going to be alright?" America said in mock concern, eyes glistening with rehearsed fear.

"Of course he is," Clarisse assured, feeling America's forehead in turn. "Why don't you go play in the yard or in the sitting room? We don't want you catching this bug as well, do we?"

America nodded obediently and sauntered out of the room, casting a final, grateful glance in Canada's direction before rushing into England's office (which was thankfully unlocked) and closing the mahogany door behind him. He was immediately immersed in England's old scent; those same cigarettes and peppermints that he remembered so fondly. Allowing himself to indulge in the moment (just for a little while), he sat in England's leather desk chair and opened the top drawer of his desk, spotting a few extra mints in a little, decorated canister. He pulled out one of the wrapped candies and popped them into his mouth, smiling goofily at the taste and leaning back in the chair mindlessly. It felt as though England had just stepped out of the room two seconds ago.

Reminding himself of his mission, America hesitantly pulled himself out of the chair and wandered over to the locked door on the other side of the room, inspecting the lock for a prolonged moment before making his next move. He withdrew Clarisse's hair pin from his pocket and set to work at picking the lock. He'd only practiced the action a few times in the past when Clarisse had decided to lock the food pantry for the night to keep him from eating sweets before bedtime, but he'd managed to succeed in his attempt no more than three minutes later. The door to the library came swinging open, unveiling a rounded room outlined by books from one end to the other. Some books were stacked up to the ceiling, which explained why there was a ladder in the room to help aid in their collection.

Feeling extremely curious, America wandered to the couch that was at the end of the room and picked up the lone book that England had apparently neglected to put back on its shelf. It had a polished hard cover and was handwritten, which meant it was probably valuable. The cover read, "Two Treatises of Government".

America opened the cover and turned to the first page, only to see a piece of parchment fall out from between the pages. He picked it up and discovered that it was a letter that had been written to England just under a year ago.

_Lord Kirkland,_

_I thought that this compilation of John Locke's recent ideas might stir some controversy should it fall into the wrong hands. I trust it shall stay safe in your possession. God knows what kind of uprising this could start should other members of the nobility pass it around. You, of all people, are well aware of the dangers of words written in ink. Such words can never be taken back. It's a maddening curse if nothing else. Furthermore, Godspeed on your trip back to the colonies. I doubt the yanks have ever even heard of philosophy let alone read of it._

_-A friend _

America folded the letter back up and put it back in the front of the book. Whoever the sender of this letter had been, he didn't appreciate his tone and word choice. He was more than old enough to understand his prejudice toward the colonies.

Nonetheless, he began to peruse through the book, flustered by the extensive amount of flowery language. He did pick up on a few key points though. This "John Locke" spoke of some sort of social contract by which people gave up the state of nature for an organized society. He also spoke of natural rights that belonged to all humans from birth; among these were life, liberty and property.

And even though America could not wrap his head around the majority of the writing in the book, one concept had managed to stick to his brain like glue, and that was the idea that if your government did not protect your natural rights, you had the right to _overthrow_ it.

Part of America sensed that this was more grandiose than he could fathom. He could feel the firmness in John Locke's words and knew this point was very crucial to his philosophy, but didn't understand what it truly meant.

Overthrow a government? How was that even possible?

Unwilling to put back the book so quickly, but knowing his time was up, America took the book with him and locked the door to the library once more, hoping he hadn't left any traces of his whereabouts scattered around the office accidently.

He held the book closely and decided he'd hold onto it for now. He'd have someone explain John Locke's words to him if he had no other choice, but he knew he could not ask England in a letter without risking punishment for sneaking into the library.

Yet, as America made his way back to the bedroom and signaled to Canada that he had completed his escapade he couldn't help but wonder…

What was England so keen of hiding?

And what was this "curse" that written words brought into the world?

He vaguely noted Canada glaring at him across the room as he was forced some disgusting herbal tea to cure his "sore throat".


	4. A Revolution

_The sun had been blistering that morning, scorching everything in its path as Boston panted in its wake. _

America sat stiffly by the windowsill, eyes looking out past the bruised horizon as some beads of sweat gathered on his temple. He watched a nest of birds on a nearby tree—the mother feeding her children a pair of wiggling worms. The younglings puffed out their torsos and shrilled with delight, nipping at the slimy prisoners.

Then, there was a knock at the door to his room.

He didn't call out an invitation, but Clarisse let herself in anyway.

"Your brother will be here any minute, Alfred. Why on earth haven't you changed into the clothes I set out for you? Don't you want to look presentable for dinner? Honestly, what am I to do with you? Matthew is impatiently waiting for you downstairs."

The questions went in one ear and out the other as America wrapped his arms around his knees and huddled into an immobile ball, refusing to converse with anyone in the vicinity. He welcomed the darkness as he closed his eyes to shield them from the light.

He wasn't surprised that Clarisse had had enough of his melodramas. He didn't blame her. She'd been trying her hardest—she really had—but she hadn't managed to get through to him despite the numerous efforts on her part. She'd tried preparing his favorite foods for dinner and allowing him extra cookies whenever his heart so desired, but the administrations hadn't made the slightest difference. It was as though the cheerful soul that America had always possessed had been severely mangled and hung on a clothesline to straighten itself out. The light in his eyes had dimmed. His lips barely let past a few, simple, one-worded replies a day.

He didn't know it, but America—the landmass itself—was bubbling with repressed anger inside. The streets of Boston were his veins and they had hardened just as firmly as his heart had.

So it wasn't as farfetched of an action as it should have been when Clarisse threw a dirty washcloth to the floor and slammed the door shut, leaving Alfred in pure solitude once more. He barely winced at the sharp sound of wood bashing against itself, head still buried within the curvatures of his legs.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Canada's hand somehow found its way onto the circumference of his shoulder, squeezing the appendage reassuringly. He must've missed the sound of the boy's footfalls as he made his way into the room.

"Get up."

Canada's command was unwavering and steady, so unlike him in more ways than one. Matthew couldn't have explained it if he had tried, but he knew that he was the only one who would be able to shake America from his gloomy reverie of crippling thoughts. The boy possessed the power to be resolute when he knew that he was being depended on to act. No one else would step up to face this challenge.

America lifted his chin just an inch and stiffened his shoulders, pointedly scowling at Canada before dropping his burdened, upper body once more. "No, thanks," he mumbled huskily. "I think I'll just sit here until I melt."

"Or you'll just get a really bad sunburn and need another milk bath," Canada said with a roll of the eyes. "I need you to do me a favor."

America's eyes were slits as he turned his head to the side in mild curiosity. "Sorry, business is closed today. Ask England when he gets home."

Canada was unrelenting. "England can't help me with this problem, so stop being a big baby and help me out." The words were hardly offensive, but effective nonetheless. America's weakness had always been his deep insecurity and his effervescent thirst to prove his worth.

He uncurled himself from his miserable position and stepped away from the windowsill, defensive stance already in play. "I'm not a baby!"

Canada bit back a smug smile at the fact that his old tricks still worked perfectly. He knew his twin all-too-well. He easily lured him into the humid outside and over to the same lake where England had taught America to swim all those years ago. He had grown quite a bit since then; now a lanky adolescent as opposed to the hyperactive early child he'd once been.

Canada was the first to speak. "Remember when you fell into this lake that one winter when we were skating?"

America groaned, face growing even warmer than it already had been at the memory. "Don't remind me. I've had some pretty good times by this lake, even though it tried to kill me."

Canada chuckled amiably, proving to be pleasant company. "Well, let's see if you can think as fast as you did back then."

America was about to spin around to ask Canada what he was talking about, but was, instead, pushed into the river by his twin's rough hands, sending him plummeting into the depths of the water with an indignant squawk.

After a few, grueling seconds, America's head broke through the surface of the glistening water. He coughed and spit out a mouthful of water, nostrils stinging and heart pounding. With an irritated snarl, he shouted some unfavorable words at Canada that England would definitely not have approved of.

"You're gonna pay for that!" America promised, wrapping a dripping hand around Canada's ankle with a devious smirk.

"No, America, don't! These are the new clothes that Clarisse-AGH!"

Canada went tumbling into the gloriously, cool water as well, escaping the sun's rays of death. He mimicked America upon bringing his head back up to the blessed atmosphere, taking in a giant gulp of air before splashing a handful of water at his brother's face.

America laughed, eyes finally alight with the joy that Canada had longed to see again. His face glowed under the sunlight, and his cowlick was as pronounced as ever among the rest of his sodden, matted hair. His striking blue eyes and wheat-colored hair greeted Canada with replenished life.

Canada grumbled unhappily under his breath, knowing that Clarisse was going to throttle the living daylights out of him for ruining his outfit in the murky, lake water. Nonetheless, he swam back to the shallow edge of the lake with his brother and began skipping rocks before presenting the true reason as to why he had brought America outside.

"While you were fooling around in the library, I read some of the letters that England has been sending to Clarisse," he began seriously, flicking his wrist and tossing a stone into the water.

"England sends letters to Clarisse?" America furrowed, rolling up the soggy ends of his jeans so that they rested just below his knees.

Canada shook his head. "They aren't meant for her. He has her personally deliver all the letters to some of the soldiers stationed here in Boston. She'd lose her job if she read them… But I figured if England's willing to go through all the trouble of having his letters delivered in secrecy, he must have something important to say."

America's eyebrows soared up his forehead. "Don't tell me you read the letters! England will kill you!"

Canada's eyes took on a mischievous look. "He won't lay a hand on us, America. We're colonies—part of the empire—he _needs_ us. Anyway, I think I can explain why you've been feeling so down lately. In one of his letters he talks about the growing concern over the American colonies. It turns out your people are really unhappy with how Parliament is treating them. Now that you're old enough, you've grown attached to your people. That is, whatever they feel you feel in return."

"Then how come you don't feel the emotions of the people up in Canada?" America asked curiously, slightly frightened by this new revelation.

"I guess it's because my land hasn't been part of the British Empire as long as yours has been, not to mention I'm not even _in _Canada most of the time since I moved in with you and England," Canada replied nonchalantly, turning over another stone in his palm.

America glowered. "Doesn't that bother you? Not being with your people and stuff?"

Canada stiffened a little at the question, trying to brush off the subject. "I suppose… What really matters though is that while you're experiencing the anger of your people, so is England. England feels the entire empire, not just his homeland. I'm willing to bet he's fighting some sort of internal battle right now, which is bound to make him… do something that he wouldn't normally do."

America inquired further, anxiety peaking as he listened to the other young adolescent. "What do you mean?"

Canada turned away from America, kneeling in the grass. "I've heard that divisions within an empire are never good news. If I'm right, your people are starting to see that they will always be considered inferior to the motherland."

"Inferior?"

Canada sighed, plastering a hand to his sweaty forehead in an attempt to cool down. "If you paid attention while doing the assignments England left us, you'd pick up on some history and learn to use your head! He never leaves us too much though… Naturally, he can't let us become _too_ educated… Colonies aren't viewed as a part of the sovereign nation; they're an extension of the empire. They are gained solely for the purpose of bringing wealth to the mother nation."

"Is that why the soldiers England sends here don't like the colonists?" America queried, kicking off his sandals and swatting a nearby fly.

"Yes, exactly. The English soldiers don't like American colonists for the main reason that they are _not_ considered English. The same goes for people from Canada, India or any other colony. The American colonists are considered to be less important than the English themselves, and now that the colonists are upset with Parliament, it's only a matter of time before—"

"Alfred? Matthew? Your brother has just arrived! Come and welcome him back!" Clarisse directed, spotting the pair by the lake.

America ignored her, lowering his head and whispering fervently instead, "Only a matter of time before what?"

Canada sent an appreciative smile in Clarisse's direction before snapping his head back toward America. "Mutiny… Treason… There isn't much of a class distinction in the colonies; no nobility. Basically that means that the common people make up the majority of the population. They are large enough in number to demand that they be heard."

The pair's voices were growing more hurried and urgent now as they began to trek back to the front of the house.

"I just think you have a right to know what's going on, America. England shouldn't be trying to hide this from you; it'll only make things worse," Canada murmured as their elder brother's carriage came into view.

"Canada? I've been thinking… I told you about that book with John Locke, right? If what you say is true and the people are angry because they aren't being represented, do you think they could overthrow the government?" America muttered sheepishly, suddenly feeling extremely inferior, indeed.

Canada choked on the air filling his lungs, eyes stinging. "You mean l-like a revolution?"

America felt his heart skip a beat at the word. "Yeah, a revolution."

"I think you've been sitting in the sun for too long. A war between an _empire_ and some _colonies_? An empire with the strongest navy in the world, nonetheless? That was a good one, America."

America scoffed, kicking up some dirt. "It wasn't meant to be a joke."

England's mossy eyes had just finished conversing with the carriage driver when they landed on America. Something seemed to harden inside of him before he shook it off and held his arms open to embrace his little brother, face cordial once more.

"My, America, you've grown!" he remarked as America hesitantly walked into the hug, allowing himself to be fussed over for a few moments. "And you're absolutely drenched to the bone! Have you been swimming in the lake again? Run along and change into some dry clothes before dinner, alright?"

America nodded weakly, suddenly feeling very foreign and small in England's presence even though he was only about three inches shorter than his guardian. He dashed into the house just as England began fretting over Canada, jumping up the steps two at a time. He dressed as gradually as possible, hands trembling as he buttoned his shirt. So slowly in fact, that he barely noticed as England came behind him with some sort of present at hand.

"You've been up here for a while? Is everything alright?" he asked gently, silently inspecting his colony from the doorway.

America swiftly nodded, stopping himself from biting his lip nervously before it was too late. "I'm fine. What's with the suit? It looks expensive…" He examined the artifact warily, disliking the taste immediately. It looked far too fancy and stuffy, so unlike America's outlandish style. "Too bad I'll never wear it," he added as an afterthought, unsure of whether or not his statement had sounded rude or not.

Apparently, it had.

"You should," England countered firmly, handing over the suit to America. "Dressing like a pauper isn't in fashion. I refuse to be seen with you if you aren't dressed _properly_," he finished matter-of-factly.

Perhaps it had been the conversation that had taken place between the twins prior to England's arrival that had lit the fuse on America's sensitivity, but he suddenly felt extremely self-conscious of his appearance. Then again, who did England think he was telling him how to dress correctly? He would dress however he very well pleased.

"So, what's the matter? I think the way I dress is perfectly acceptable," he snarled, making his opinion known before tearing the suit away from England's view and marching into the bathroom to change. He planned to prove to England that the suit looked ridiculous.

When he had returned fully dressed, he stomped in front of the mirror in his room, face dropping at his reflection.

He looked so…so…

European.

England seemed awfully pleased with himself, a proud smile gleaming on his face. "See? Dressed like that it's hard to believe you're the same person."

America tried not to take the comment to heart, his eyes glaring distastefully back at him through the mirror. He would never be caught dead in this suit if he could help it.

"Sure..." he forced a smile at England. "But this isn't comfortable. I guess I'll just wear it on special occasions then."

England sighed, but conceded, crossing his arms across his chest and scrutinizing America's form one more time before allowing him to change back to his regular clothes.

Did he really dress like a pauper?

America frowned, rubbing a hand across his face wearily. Everyone in the colonies dressed in a similar fashion; it was simply part of the culture.

Another wave of fury bubbled inside of him. He could practically hear the voices of angry citizens shouting in his ear. He gripped the doorknob in one hand, wondering if England could feel the same twinge of heated emotions. Maybe he'd grown immune to it all considering how vast his empire was.

After all, _the sun never sets on the British Empire._

* * *

America had matured into quite a strapping man. His cornflower hair complimented his azure eyes; those orbs glistened with untold wisdom depicting a young adult far beyond his years that many had failed to notice.

_Except for Canada._

The seeds of understanding had been planted and watered, meaning that there was nothing stopping America now from thriving even more. He'd grown unnaturally large for a collection of colonies, surprising both England and Canada alike.

Canada wordlessly observed the process of America reading under candlelight during late hours. Clarisse had tried to prod him into going to bed for some required rest each night, but America had ignored every plea. Getting America to read when he was a young child had always ended up in someone getting extremely frustrated with an accompanying migraine, but now, he seemed to be inhaling one book after another. He constantly stole books from England's library, careful to put them back in their rightful place when he was finished with them, leaving the library seemingly untouched and spotless.

_But Canada knew… Canada had always known, whether he had liked to admit it or not._

America wasn't as foolish, naïve or lazy as others would've judged him to be. He was clever and cunning, always acting as though nothing was out of the ordinary when speaking with England. He'd mastered the skill of controlling his hot-tempered emotions and stood in front of his sovereign nation as though he was still the most precious and obedient thing the world had ever laid eyes upon.

And while Canada watched the days and seasons pass like the servants of their expansive abode, America grew more and more detached as knowledge seeped into his very core.

Canada felt as though America had been poisoned. He knew that they were just colonies, destined to forever kneel to their motherland's command without question or hesitation. To Canada, it was a duty and an obligation to the empire to remain loyal and hardworking, helping the empire prosper by handing over resources and supplies.

To America, they were just slaves to the crown, and he would never allow himself and his people to remain bound by those chains for very long. A fire that could not be quenched had already been ignited, and America was going to burn the ropes that were holding his wrists; regardless of whether or not he should have his own skin blistered in the process.

However, what Canada had not expected was England's violent reaction. After small outbreaks of resistance in the colonies toward a new string of taxes imposed by the Stamp Act, he'd sent hundreds of redcoats overseas to snuff out the flames of the rebellion.

And as with all fires, it had soon grown uncontrollable after its manifestation. Canada could practically see fire raining down from the skies when America had approached him to question where his true loyalties lied.

America's stance had become more impressive over the years, and his eyes had gone from innocent and fragile to sharp and stolid. He'd also grown taller than Canada, seeing how quickly he was developing and pulling himself away from England's influence.

"If this does lead to the colonists taking up arms, which I expect it will, are you going to be siding with my troops or those of the British Empire?"

America's voice was deeper than what Canada had once remembered it being.

"Your troops? You've barely got a militia. Joining you would be suicide, and unlike you, I don't plan on having my people die for an unachievable goal," Canada muttered, already tired of a war that hadn't even officially started.

"It was a simple question. If you can't answer it, then just say so!" America spat, pulling out a cigarette from his coat pocket and carefully lighting it. He'd picked up the stress-relief habit while hanging around with the other colonists, though it was supposedly addictive. Personally, he hadn't cared very much at the time. With an angry exhale of breath, he brought the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag, slumping against the wall as he regarded Canada with cold eyes.

"I think I've made my point clear enough. I'll be siding with England," Canada finally stated without an ounce of remorse.

America tapped the excess ash off of the cigarette before continuing. "Alright, then I guess you'll be heading back to your own land soon enough?"

Canada nodded, running a hand through his wavy hair, which was much more manageable than his brother's. "It's been a while, and England's deemed me old enough to live by myself on actual Canadian land. Besides, he's too busy fighting you to really have to worry about me any longer, right?"

America clicked his teeth disapprovingly and let out a puff of smoke from his mouth. "You're free to go on your own while I'm still being treated like an unruly child? How wonderful…"

"I'd watch my back if I were you. England is bound to arrive to the colonies any day, and he'll come on a mission to stop this madness on his own. If it should come down to warfare… let's just say that I hope you don't get blown to smithereens, eh?" Canada smirked, amused by the recent turn of events.

"Thanks, _brother_. How very supportive of you," America grumbled with a shake of the head. "I'm outta here," he added finally with his colonial accent, opening the door.

Canada narrowed his eyes. "What do you plan to do?"

America grinned toothily in that childish way that Canada hadn't seen in nearly a decade. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

He dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and extinguished it with the tip of his boot.

"Start a revolution."


	5. The Wars They Fight

_American Revolution_

There was a strong sense of validation that came over America when _he_ was the one to finally loom over England's slumped form, so strong to the point where it felt wrong. He had every right to kick England while he was down, but he didn't. In fact, he just stood there before him, speechless, dazed, and shocked at how the tables had turned. He wiped at the cold rain sticking to his cheeks and watched as Britain hunched over himself. Those commanding emerald eyes hid behind shaking hands that were chilled to the bone.

_The sun never sets on the British Empire._

America felt his heart beginning to soften, wondering whether or not he should give England a helping hand before going their separate ways. Despite all the warfare, bloodshed, and fervent emotions, they were still brothers (at least America thought so). Therefore, he stretched out a supportive hand and offered it to England, hoping to move on and put the past behind them. Perhaps, it would signify a new beginning for their little, semi-dysfunctional family.

England raised his head from his trembling hands, bangs wet with salty tears and rain as he gave America a pitiful look. Then, with a suddenly neutral expression, he slapped the proffered hand away as his lips curled with disdain.

"Keep your filthy hands away from me. You were always so unruly and uncivilized. I don't know what I was thinking, trying to culture a savage like you. I should have left you in that damned forest when I had the chance." England grit his teeth and stood up, marching away. "I knew you'd be trouble."

America narrowed his eyes, tucking his stinging hand into the pocket of his uniform. Two could play at that game. With a growling noise residing in the pit of his throat, he stormed away in the opposite direction with the remainder of his fellow Patriots. He planned on celebrating a well-deserved victory.

If only things were that simple…

* * *

_War of 1812_

Out of all the times England had been drunk, this time had certainly topped all of the events that had taken place before and after it. When looking back on it later, he'd wince at the idea of poor Canada having to witness it.

He'd all but strolled into Washington D.C during the War of 1812, he and his fellow commanders laughing at the ignorance of the American militia who had taken position in Bladensburg, Maryland of all places, expecting the battle to take place there due to a poor transmission of information and loose rumors.

All in all, the war was actually a pleasant distraction for England, separating him from the chaos happening in Europe at the time, due to France and its Napoleonic Wars. Battling with America was bringing out old feelings of competitiveness that he'd forgotten he'd possessed.

So, he took as much advantage of the situation as possible during the time, and after a few hearty drinks, he and his old war buddies pranced into the White House and, to add further insult to injury, indulged in the dinner that had been prepared for the President of the United States. James Madison had been forced to flee for his safety upon seeing the all-too-familiar redcoats parading around his mansion, and the few people who remained inside the domain scurried around to protect valuables before fleeing for their lives as well.

Honestly, he swore that he'd never let America live this one down; it was just too priceless. It felt good to finally get some revenge on his former charge with an immense sense of superiority trickling through his nerves.

Canada had awkwardly strolled behind him the entire time, forever remaining loyal to the other nation after being brainwashed with some well-cultivated propaganda on England's part. He'd urged the boy to support the British after telling him that America was planning to expand his land by annexing parts of Canadian land. This of course, had enraged the normally docile nation, and he'd been following England around like a lapdog ever since.

Halfway through the President's steak, England clicked his tongue and poured himself more of the mulled wine that had been set on the table, the burning taste of alcohol warming him delightfully.

Canada mustered the courage to interrupt. "Um, Arthur? D-Do you really think we should be doing this? A-Alfred will be furious."

England poured some of the red wine into an empty, pristine glass and passed it over to Canada. "Ah, but that's the point, my dear boy. Cheers. Besides, we aren't nearly finished here. It'd be a shame to leave when the night is still so young. I suggest we wait for the Americans to arrive after a long march back to their beloved capital."

"F-Finished? What other business do we have here?"

England clapped Canada's shoulder, a slack grin twitching at his face. "Lad, we're going to have a little ball, only this time, we'll skip some of the usual formalities. Yes, I dare say the night will be in _flames _by the time we retreat."

The curl of hair sticking out on the top of Canada's head seemed to droop a little. "F-Flames?"

England merely shrugged slyly. "Consider it Alfred's early birthday gift. A pity he won't make it for the party."

At that, one of the commanders stood up and traveled to the piano in the opposite room and began to play a melancholy tune. The other British lords and nobles ransacked the perimeter, taking anything of considerable value and tossing it into the fireplace.

Canada stood sheepishly by England's side, letting out a little yelp of protest when the older nation pulled him down to sit in one of the luxurious chairs.

"Quite a lavish place, isn't it? And Alfred always said he disliked the ornate castles of Europe," England scoffed, standing up and digging in his coat pocket for a moment before withdrawing himself a cigarette and lighting it. "I suppose you're still upset about his troops burning York."

Canada watched the man warily. "All is fair in love and war, no? He's my twin brother; I'll find a way to let it go."

England clicked his tongue once more. "Oh, Matthew, I thought I'd raised you better than that. I suppose I'll just have to help you settle the score then… You leave me no choice."

With that, England knocked all the burning candles in the room to the floor and watched the carpet explode into uncontrollable flames. The nation's eyes seemed to come alive at the sight of the fire, all drunkenness fading immediately as his focus came back to him.

"Arthur, no! What are you doing? He'll feel it. You're going to hurt him!" Canada frantically ran across the room, searching for the nearest source of water.

"Just as he hurt you, yes?"

"That was different!"

England smirked. "Oh, was it really? Please, explain."

"We don't have time for that now! We have to put this fire out!"

"Alfred's suffered worse. This is a simple strike to his pride," England reassured, guiding Canada out of the room while the others accompanying them began to aggravate the flames even more. "He won't feel a thing in the morning."

"You're wrong!" Canada shouted angrily as England gripped his wrist and led him out the front entrance to the White House.

"How long do you think it will take for him to finally grace us with his presence?" England chuckled, watching as one of the windows of the top floor shattered, letting down a rain of glass. The majority of his men were still spreading the fire with little to no regards to their own safety.

And once again, Canada chided himself for underestimating America's impeccable timing and the fire of his own spirit. Dark clouds rolled into the night as he and England stood before the burning White house for a few, triumphant minutes. Then, terrible gusts of wind spurred the violent flames and sent the redcoats running out of the building in suppressed fear and excitement.

"Arthur, look over there," Canada shrilled, pointing to a place off in the distance beyond the city and its plains. "It's a tornado."

England followed Canada's gaze and allowed himself a dry smile. "I won't say I'm surprised by Alfred's reaction."

The fire continued to crackle loudly ahead of them, sending planks of wood crashing to the ground. Surrounding civilians screeched in fear, cursing the redcoats as they ran past to protect themselves. Then, in the midst of the chaos, Alfred came galloping into the scene on a horse, jumping off the animal and tearing across the site with wide eyes.

Then, a torrential downpour of rain began, signaling the approach of the tornado and sending the majority of people inside or underground to avoid it. The water extinguished the remaining fire that had been consuming the White House, leaving a smoldering pile of ash and debris behind.

Alfred's blue eyes finally found England and his group of redcoats. No more than two seconds later, he had sprinted the distance between him and the other nation, ignoring the pain in his side as he tackled England to the ground, caking his uniform with mud.

"What have you done?" America bellowed, gripping the front of England's shirt and holding him down with one foot pressed against his chest.

England seemed completely unfazed. "What have I done? I don't think _I'm_ the one to blame for the greatest disgrace ever dealt to American arms."

America curled a hand around England's throat dangerously. "I would lose that snarky tone if I were you."

Infuriated with the entire, ridiculous war, Canada finally found the resolve in him to rip America off of England, sending the twins into a struggle in the mud, rain still drenching them both.

"You're here too? You helped him do this?" America spluttered around his gasps for breath around the heavy rain, pinning Canada's shoulders to the ground.

"Maybe if you'd just left my land alone…"

"This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with England's stubborn pride!" America roared, eyes burning uncomfortably at the sight of Canada still wearing that redcoat uniform after all those years… Always a loyalist… Always a struggle between even the closest of brothers…

England sighed, head pounding from all the liquor he'd chugged down. "America, let him go."

"Stay out of this, you limey," America spat in return, eyes grating into Canada's. "Why won't you leave him? I thought… I thought you would've left him and joined my side by now. Haven't I proved myself?"

Canada shook his head. "You never had to prove yourself. I always knew you'd beat all the odds."

"Matt, you know I'm sorry for what happened in York… It's just a little place anyway! It's not like I burned down something as important as the White House!"

And suddenly, Canada was reminded of the conversation they'd had as children in England's backyard, catching fireflies. He responded with the same answer he'd given then. "That doesn't mean it isn't important."

America frowned and gaped and Canada, finally releasing him and standing up. He remembered the time when England had once embraced him and said, "_Neither of us understands our capabilities._"

And the words were so much stronger now than when he'd been a child.

England brooded on how everything could have resulted in a nice family reunion, but just held his tongue instead, eyes nostalgic as he watched the fully-grown twins stare each other down.

"Canada? Come along then, we've got a militia to face off."

And with a final, solemn look in America's direction, Canada followed England's lead into the night.

* * *

_World War I_

"The war to end all wars," England scoffed, spitting a mouthful of dust onto the barren land of the military campsite. "What rubbish." He furrowed his eyebrows at the sight of new recruits entering the camp in chocolate colored uniforms. He recognized a distinct head of dark blond hair among the group paired with that incorrigible cowlick.

"Oi!" he shouted, grabbing the attention of the young soldier, who cocked his head to the side and forced a smile on his face. Even though the gesture was strained, it was reassuring to see fresh troops among the weary soldiers that had been fighting for the past few years. Before America had joined the war, it seemed as though the stalemate between Germany and Britain was never going to let up. But now, the Allies finally had their advantage to end this.

America abandoned the group of men and walked up to England, a look of determination already inscribed into his face.

"Nice of you to finally join us," England huffed, though he couldn't help the relief that was inflating in his chest. "Who would've thought that it would only take a single tantrum over Germany's U-boats destroying your trading ships to get you involved in the war? A European war, nonetheless."

America grimaced at the teasing. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I thought you could use the help anyway seeing as you keep complaining about France and Russia being totally useless. Russia hasn't even industrialized yet. Being the heroic figure that I am, it was my cue to sweep in."

"Don't flatter yourself, I was doing just fine without your assistance," England smoothly lied, trying to defend his pride. "Canada's troops and other help from my _colonies_ have been more than sufficient."

America bit the inside of his cheek at the emphasis England had placed on his statement. "Where is Canada by the way? Tending to the wounded Frenchmen? His roots were always tied closer to France than you."

"Actually, he's feeding your famished, journey-worn soldiers as we speak, so I'd play nice for a while," England informed, walking through the camp with America on his heels. "We're set to strike in the morning, so prepare wisely." He stated with an undertone of concern.

America scratched an itch on his arm through the uniform as he contemplated this. He knew England was holding back some crucial information.

He ventured a careful question. "What's it like out there, England?"

The man sighed, eyes fluttering shut with a shaky breath. "The trenches are horrible sights to see, and the Germans have been using the dead as… Nevermind that… What's important is that you keep your eyes open."

America nodded, making a turn for where dinner was being served. "Alright then, I'll see you later."

England bit his lip, eyes downcast.

A war of attrition was a euphemism for the birth of inhumanity.

* * *

"So, Canada, slowly separating from England's control, I see," America smiled, biting into a roll. "He's still got some say in what you do, but I guess it must be nice to be sort of considered as your own nation."

Canada pursed his lips, watching as America wolfed down his meal. Weeks of being on the seas could really drain a person. "I think we have bigger problems now than my relationship with England."

America swallowed a large portion of food before stuffing more carbohydrate-rich nutrients into his mouth. If he planned to fight, he had to be well-fed and energized. "This war will be over soon, Mattie, don't you worry."

"I think you're taking this a little too lightly," Canada whispered, images from previous battles already burned into his retinas. There were some things that he wished he could just voluntarily forget.

"You'll see, those Germans don't stand a chance."

And for once, there was no irritation in Canada's voice when he spoke to America. For a moment, it was just like old times.

"I hope you're right, Al. I really do."

* * *

England was right; the trenches were a horrible place. Those crevices that were dug into the earth were surrounded by miles of land that looked impossibly desolate and inhabitable. America wondered how humans could even bear to stand in such a wasteland.

It was the first war he'd ever been in that had contained such major destruction. The sights were unlike anything he'd ever witnessed before, and it made him feel nauseous. He'd barely trekked half-way up the hill they were supposed to be battling on before he had to stop to vomit, stomach burning intensely.

Canada patiently waited for him as the others went on, giving him a hand when he dizzily got onto his feet again.

It was not long before he was kneeling in one of the trenches, gun pointed ahead as England and Canada stood on either side of him, each with their own guns at the ready.

What they had not expected to happen so early in the fight, was for the Germans to drop a mixture of tear and mustard gas into their trench, leaving them fumbling around messily to put on their gasmasks. England had already had his on before the battle had even ensued, but America—who had been resolute about keeping the mask off because it would press against his glasses—was left clumsily fighting with the protective device. Canada managed to put his own on with practiced ease, avoiding the spray of tear gas that would have otherwise blinded him before setting off into a run through the trench behind England, who was guiding them to safety.

America ran as well, still trying to pull on the mask as his eyes watered and burned. He regretted the time during which he'd claimed, 'heroes don't need gasmasks'.

Thank goodness for Canada's warm-heart.

"ENGLAND! WAIT!" Canada yelled over the incredible noise, gripping the back of England's jacket to pull him back. The elder nation stumbled and turned his head to see America's sorry state. It seemed as though the young man was drowning on air itself, choking and coughing as his face grew red and desperate. He was the living definition of a fish out of water.

_I always knew you'd be trouble…_

England pushed past Canada and ran back to help America, snatching the mask out of the younger nation's hands and pressing it against his face roughly before securing it in the back.

"Going to get himself bloody killed," England murmured under his breath, voice muffled by his mask as America grew limp in his arms from inhaling the poisonous gas. A regular human would have already died from the exposure, but England prayed that since America was a full-grown nation, he'd be able to handle the substance.

"Idiot," England panted through the respirator around the sides of his face, supporting America's body and picking him up as best as he could manage without breaking his spine. He gave the man a piggy-back ride for a hundred yards or so before laying him on the ground once more and collapsing on the soil next to an equally exhausted Canada.

"Is he going to be okay?" Canada asked as he took off his mask and inhaled the fresh air once more.

England nodded firmly. "He has to be, or he'll regret it."

Canada gave a nostalgic smile.

"We need to get to a hospital or the medical camp at the very least. We haven't much time before the effects of the gas start settling in. Even if Alfred was the only one who inhaled the mustard gas, we've all been exposed," England rambled worriedly, hovering over America's unconscious form.

Subsequently, Canada began to scratch at his leg, hissing when he hit a particularly tender spot.

England went bug-eyed, snatching Canada's arm in a death grip. "Don't scratch!"

The timid nation apologized quickly, unsure of what he'd exactly done to make England so frightened. However, his silent question was answered when England rolled up the leg of his pants, pointing to an angry, red blister on Canada's fair skin.

"It's started. We weren't exposed for very long, but it'll be enough to blister us thoroughly if we don't douse ourselves with some water immediately. We have to wash it off," England explained frantically, lifting America up as gently as he could manage before heading east. "I think there's a small river nearby. We can bathe there. By the time we get to camp, America's airway will be blocked with blisters in his throat, so we'll need to set up our own camp nearby."

Canada gave America a pitying look before nodding and lagging behind England, backpack full of vital resources on hand.

Being an island nation, England had always had a knack for spotting sources of water nearby. His extensive knowledge of geography and nature always proved to be handy in sticky situations during warfare. This time was no different.

They reached the river in ten minutes flat. Without wasting a single moment, England set America down near the edge of the water and beckoned for Canada to join them. England hopped into the water first, clothes and all, trying to rinse any residue from the gas off of his skin and clothes. It was a warm, spring afternoon, and England supposed that his clothes would dry quickly any way. If he had to take the risk of catching a cold, then so be it, but at least he'd be alive.

Canada soon followed in suit, dunking his head into the water and scrubbing his hands briskly. They put to use the single, tiny bars of soap that each of them had stored in their backpacks for times like these, during which they were far from camp. It was a shame to have to waste it so soon, but it was certainly necessary. They ran the soap over their skin and clothes, doing everything to rid their bodies of the gas' effects.

"Good. That should be alright for now. There should be some topical cream for the blisters in the first aid kit," England noted, rummaging around his backpack for the box. He plopped it next to Canada and told him to treat his blisters and then set up camp before heading back to America's side.

"You've managed to get yourself into another big mess, you know that? I'm going to help you, but it won't be pretty nor are you going to like it," England glowered, cupping his hands into the river and filling them with water before splashing the liquid onto the other nation's face.

America woke up promptly, attempting to sit up habitually until England's hands pushed him back down. The young nation's eyes were bloodshot as he blinked up slowly at England, letting out a horrible cry of pain in the process. He sounded like a wounded dog, howling and whimpering helplessly.

"Hush, Alfred," England whispered reassuringly, pushing back the nation's hair.

"A-Arthur," America let out a ragged breath, voice mangled and unrecognizable. A few tears leaked from his eyes involuntarily; not out of sadness, but pure pain.

Canada tried not to gawk at the sight, head turned as he focused on setting up the foldable tent he'd carried with him in his backpack. Still, he couldn't help but notice the renewed compassion in England's voice. The last time the man had been so gentle with America was when they were children. The soothing lilt of the Englishman's voice had been enough to put all of their worries to rest when the twins were small.

Canada got lost in the memory for a little while, watching out of his peripheral vision as England carried America over to the water and dunked him carefully in and out of the river. America gasped at the numbing temperature of the water, but adjusted quickly, head resignedly resting against England's chest as the older nation tried to muster up enough strength to keep America upright while scrubbing him down with soap.

Canada had forgotten how strong England could be.

"There, there, it'll be alright. Try not to speak. Your throat is going to hurt quite a bit for the next few days," he'd said delicately, downsizing the severity of the situation to keep America calm. He didn't even explain to America what was happening, though the nation didn't seem to mind, seeing as he was too preoccupied with dealing with the pain in his aching lungs.

Once the tent was deemed fit enough to spend the night in, Canada began to start a fire, glancing up at the sky as sunset began to tower in the distance. It was going to be a long night.

"Drink some of this water and rinse your mouth out a few times. You may want to gargle as well," England continued whispering commands to America, aiding him whenever he was unable to do something himself. The young nation coughed roughly multiple times and did as he was told to the best of his ability while England rummaged around in the first-aid kit that Canada had long since finished using.

He found a few tubes of plastic containing clear saline, brightening with relief upon the discovery. Perhaps they weren't completely doomed after all. He guided America into a supine position once more, removed his glasses and opened one of the tubes of saline to use as makeshift eye drops. It rinsed America's eyes out and reduced the redness and irritation that had settled there, causing the younger country to sigh with relief. His glasses were soon placed back on his face.

"Feeling better?" England instantly interrogated, holding his hand in front of America's face and asking him how many fingers he was holding up.

"Three," America mumbled correctly, his voice hoarse and raw.

"Good, any blurriness or dark spots?"

America shook his head in negation, causing England's shoulders to sag with relief.

"Thank God," he spoke faintly, offering America the semblance of a dry smile.

Blindness would not be one of their concerns any longer; it was a miracle that his eyes would come out unscathed.

But there were plenty of other things to worry about instead.

"Let's get you settled in the tent." England said mildly, squeezing America's shoulder in a mollifying way as he helped him stand again.

America gasped quietly, trying to gain control of his voice as fresh oxygen invaded his sore lungs once more. "A-Arthur…I…"

England shushed him. "What did I say about speaking unnecessarily?" The pair made their way over to the small, gray tent that Canada had set up. It wasn't much, but it would have to suffice.

Canada had already gathered up all three of the blankets that they had, covering the bottom of the tent with one of them and tucking America in with another. The third one had been set by the fire, where one of them would be sleeping for the night. When he was sure that England and America wouldn't be needing his help anytime soon, he went through the cans of food that remained in each of their packs, trying to make a meal out of whatever he could salvage.

"M-Mattie's a…g-great housewife," America chuckled weakly before letting out a string of painful coughs.

England crossed his arms. "If you're feeling well enough to make attempts at humor, I think you just might make it out of this in one piece. Then, I'll be able to scold you for being such an idiot that you couldn't even properly put your gasmask on!"

America gave England a cheeky albeit weary smile.

"Yes, you won't be smiling when the abdominal pains, blisters, shortness of breath, fever and wretched coughing set in. Mustard gas is an unforgiving substance. I'm afraid you'll be suffering through the effects for a few days before you'll be ready to walk around again, let alone fight," England informed.

America coughed again. "W-Will I die?"

England frowned, biting his tongue. Quite frankly, he wasn't sure of the answer.

"No, don't be ridiculous."

_He knew that America could read through the lie. _

It had been Canada's turn to keep watch over America late into the night while England caught up on a few hours of sleep by the fire before they would switch roles again. The nation had to be monitored around the clock in case of respiratory complications. At around three in the morning, Canada had come sprinting out of the tent, shaking England awake with a panicky air.

England woke quickly, always a light-sleeper. Upon seeing Canada's concerned eyes, he stumbled his way inside the tent and sat down by America's side, placing a practiced hand on the prone nation's forehead.

"He's been calling for you in his sleep. I think he's delirious. At one point, he started screaming. I didn't know what to do!" Canada said dejectedly, hands trembling in fear upon seeing his twin so incapacitated.

England nodded with a yawn. "It's alright, lad. Go to sleep. I'll handle this."

Canada remembered a time in his childhood when he'd come running to England's room in the middle of the night, explaining to him that America was having a terrible nightmare and that he was extremely worried. England had smiled at him fondly and praised him for being such a good sibling, before telling him to sleep in his bedroom for the night as he tended to America.

Things didn't seem much different now. England was still the one who was always cool-minded and in control during emergencies, always able to think well, if not better, under pressure.

Canada retreated quickly, too troubled to sleep anyway.

Meanwhile, England readjusted the moist cloth that Canada must have retrieved to lower the fever onto America's forehead, frowning as he yelped at the cold touch. His eyes popped open, wide and bewildered as he cried out in more pain, forehead clammy.

"H-Hurts," America whimpered like a kicked puppy, blinking hazily at England. "When can I go back outside, England? I wanna… Wanna go out and play… Don't like staying in bed."

Canada was right about the delirium then...

England decided to play along with the hallucinations for a little while, as long as it would keep America relaxed.

"Soon, love," he murmured, carding through America's hair tenderly. He gave the nation a calculating look as the country took in labored breaths. "You'll feel better soon enough."

"Good, cause M-Mattie needs me to teach him how to w-whistle… He can't do it… Did you know?"

England shook his head, eyes watering with tears and he watched America move his lips. "No, pet… I wasn't aware. Can you open your mouth for me? Nice and wide? Just like when you play hospital with Canada?"

America took in another oblivious breath, sweat gathering on his upper lip. He opened his mouth carefully a moment later, breaths growing shorter and heavier.

England felt more tears sting his eyes as he saw the blisters that had formed around the edges of America's swollen throat. Obviously, his attempts at clearing the residue of the gas had failed. There was nothing he could do about the internal contamination.

America closed his mouth, still believing he was a colony all over again. "Hey, England? Don't cry."

England's breath hitched as he tried to smother a sob. "I'm sorry, America."

"Silly, England. Always crying," America smiled ever so slightly, cheeks flaming red with fever.

"Yes, silly me," England replied softly, wiping his eyes and grasping America's hand with his own. "It's only because I care about you so much. You're my little brother, after all."

"I know," America whispered, coughing roughly. "You and Mattie are the best brothers in the whole wide world."

England let out a shaky breath along with a small smile. "You don't say?"

"Mhmm. I'm getting kinda sleepy, England."

England dabbed the icy, wet cloth over America's face and neck, trying to cool him down. "Don't go to sleep yet, America."

America seemed to ignore him. "Tell Canada I said goodnight."

England felt the lump in his throat double. "Please… Don't go to sleep. Stay talking to me, America."

America went silent for a moment, startling England with the heavy stillness within the tent. Finally, he spoke again. "Are you mad at me, England?"

"No, of course not," England said soothingly. "You know that I'll always forgive you, no matter what kind of trouble you get yourself into."

"Really, cause I thought that you always wanted me to be more like Canada… Canada is always good…"

"No, poppet. I like you just the way you are," England sniffed, trying to get his eyes to stop tearing up. Maybe the mustard gas had gotten into his eyes too… He couldn't understand why he was becoming such an emotional wreck all of a sudden. Perhaps, it was the lack of sleep. Yes, that explained it.

America had fallen asleep after that, unable to keep his heavy-lidded eyes open. His chest still rose and fell steadily, but it was a painful sight to behold. He tossed and turned in his sleep, restless as England rubbed his back tiredly.

He had not sat by America's side like this since before the revolution, and the importance of the moment was certainly not lost on him.

But he knew that if and when America woke up in the morning, he wouldn't remember a single word of their conversation.

And maybe it was better that way…


	6. Products of Actions

"_**This black and white photo don't capture the skin**_

_**From the shock of a shell or the memory of smell**_

_**If red is for Hell**_

_**The war was in color."**_

_**-'War Was In Color' by Carbon Leaf**_

England came to his senses early the next morning, functioning only on a few, scarce hours of sleep. His hand had been ensnared in America's for the entire night, leaving the appendage stiff and clammy when he had finally retracted it. The young nation had stirred for a spell of time, mewling wearily at the loss of contact, but otherwise succumbed to the invitation of sleep.

And it was for the best really—for America to remain asleep. Wakefulness would only bring about more twisting pain to the nation, and England wasn't sure whether or not he'd be able to endure another round of helpless cries of despair calling his name for consolation.

He left the tent as soundlessly as possible, casting one more sorrowful look in America's direction before entering the outside world. The sun greeted him immediately, shining warmly over his face as he admired the little campsite that they had established.

And to his surprise, Canada was up and about well before him, already having produced a lovely breakfast (considering the circumstances) along with another blazing campfire to combat the chilly mountain air.

"Good morning," the North American nation welcomed mildly, doing his best to look optimistic and bright. "I gathered the small rations of bread, biscuits, meat and vegetables that we had stored in our backpacks and tried to put together something with a little substance. It isn't much, but it's better than nothing. I don't know how much longer we'll be stuck here before we can move America to the medical base, but I think it'd be wise to go hunting for some food today just in case we run out."

England shook his head placidly. "We'll start our hike back to base today. We cannot stay here much longer; it isn't safe, and America needs real medical attention."

Canada straightened up, tossing a few broken twigs to feed the fire. He turned to look at England seriously. "Do you really think he'll be able to make the journey? I doubt he can walk that far."

"We have no choice. We'll carry him if we must."

England walked to the edge of the riverbank, watching the water slosh and foam across the rocks. He knew America wouldn't be able to walk five yards let alone five miles, but he couldn't watch the nation suffer any longer. They had to at least _try_ to cover some ground during the course of the day.

He retrieved some cool water from the stream, filling up a canteen as Canada rummaged around his temporary kitchen just before an earsplitting outcry startled them both. The Canadian was the first to drop what he was doing and run to his twin brother's aid, trying to shush him to no avail.

Arthur stepped nonchalantly onto the scene a moment later, standing at the entrance of the tent with a carefully neutral expression while Canada slapped a hand to America's open mouth, muffling his screeches.

"Shh, shh," he pleaded delicately, lavender eyes watering. "It's okay, Alfred. Just please try to relax."

But America was mainly oblivious of Canada's presence, head spinning from the excruciating pain prickling all over his body. Each intake of breath seared his organs, sending him racking in agony and thrashing under the blankets like a rabid beast.

America screamed again, eyes wide and pupils dilating as he dared to take another trembling breath. He continued to writhe on the ground, kicking at Canada to back away and to leave him be.

It was only when England knelt down on the other side of America's convulsing figure that the Canadian decided it was alright to back away and allow the eldest nation to take control of the situation. He hovered over America a few inches away, wishing he could do more to help ease his brother's pain.

England held up the canteen of water he had just filled up to the sickly figure, pressing it firmly against his lips to get him to drink. "Small sips," he ordered thinly, holding up America's head to keep him from choking. While the nation followed the instructions, England gave Canada a pointed look and said, "We're leaving _today_, and that's final. Find some food that America will be able to stomach and start packing up our possessions. I'll stay here and make sure this git doesn't do anything else idiotic that could result in him being killed. Preferably, we can complete over half of the journey before nightfall."

Canada loomed over America's form uncertainly, eyes flickering between both of his brothers. He wasn't going to stand idly by while England tortured America by making him hike up the mountainside. It was about time he gave his opinion on the matter, and he was sure America would thank him for it in the long run. "We'll have to stop in between. There's no way that—"

Yet, England seemed determined to stand by his plan to the end. "Just do as I say!" he barked, ill-tempered due to the lack of sleep and stress of the situation.

Canada couldn't recall a time when he had ever directed a glare at anyone besides America, let alone England, but he managed to get his displeasure across without too much thought. England seemed surprised at the gesture, but returned the steely-eyed look a moment later, challenging Canada to speak.

Resolve shattering, Canada skittishly left the tent once more, deciding not to question the man's judgment for now. After all, this was not the time or place to argue, and the battle could be fought later when America was not a primary witness.

Later, he'd berate himself for backing down.

Perhaps, he would never be as courageous as America.

* * *

_**Treaty of Versailles**_

_Article 159. The German military forces shall be demobilized [disbanded] and reduces as prescribed hereafter. _

_Article 160. By a date which must not be later than March 31, 1920, the German Army must not contain more than seven divisions of infantry and three divisions of cavalry._

_Article 232. The Allied and Associate Governments affirm and Germany accepts the responsibility of Germany and her allies for causing __**all **__the loss and damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have been subjected as a consequence of the war. _

America narrowed his eyes, scanning through each article with more and more dread in the pit of his stomach. He had been required to attend the world meeting and had been required to read through the treaty, so why wasn't he given the ability to offer any input or criticism?

He always remembered what England had constantly reminded him as a child; he was not a government official—merely a personification of the landmass and its people. He couldn't write up legislation whenever he felt like it or veto the ideas of his people, but he did have a right to read through each document.

And he knew that if the Central Powers and their administrations signed this treaty, they would be setting themselves up for another war.

"Something wrong?" Canada raised an eyebrow at him from across the table, trying to figure out what was going on behind those pensive eyes.

America cleared his throat, still not completely recovered from that little fiasco on the battlefield all those months ago. Mustard gas sure was vicious.

"Yes," he finally sighed, voice still a bit husky and strained. "Something is very wrong."

He let his eyes flit over to where Germany was sitting, his eyes icy and grim as he reread each article with growing fury.

Personally, America wasn't surprised. It seemed as though all the blame had just been thrown onto Germany and his allies—as though they were the only ones who had been fighting the war. Why did the Central Powers have to pay for all the damages and rebuild Western Europe? What about the damage that had been done to _them_?

After all, it took two sides to start a war.

With growing anxiety, America also noted a very crucial point that had been left out in this treaty. What were they going to do with the land that they had promised Japan and Italy? There wasn't a single article addressing that matter—only countless statement after statement that placed heavy punishment on Germany and all of his supporters.

America pursed his lips nervously. It was no small news that Japan had become well-industrialized in a very short period of time (the only Asian nation to do so), and was transforming into a global power to be reckoned with. He wondered if England and France shared the same thoughts on the issue, but somehow doubted it. Those two were still fiercely consumed by the emotions of the aftermath of the war, completely negligent to the problems that remained unresolved.

He watched as Woodrow Wilson stood up to present his "Fourteen Points" with little, actual interest. A League of Nations was a nice idea, but America didn't have time for nice ideas at the moment; he had big fish to fry.

He swore to himself that this was the last time that he would allow himself to get entangled in a European war if he could help it. Next time, the Europeans could deal with these things on their own. Those elder nations could handle themselves without his intervention. He supposed it wasn't his place to police the world.

With a wary look in the direction of Japan, Italy and Germany again, America excused himself from the room, surprising both Canada and England as he stormed away, disconcerted with the turnout of recent events.

No more European wars.

* * *

_**December 7, 1941**_

_They'd called him a coward. Oh, how wrong they were to toy with a beast. _

America had felt it first in the form of terror. He awoke early in the morning, ramrod straight in bed as he clutched his chest, eyes wide as he all but hyperventilated. He'd crawled out of bed, convulsing and coughing on the floor as a shudder ran down his spine, sending him curling up on his side with a groan of pain.

Doubled over and sweating, he stood up only to fall once more, confusion clear on his face as he desperately tried to make it to his dresser.

He knew he'd been attacked. Sudden onslaughts of pain were always linked to warfare and the damage it caused to infrastructure. So, his first priority had been to get up and get dressed so that he could get outside and figure out what was happening and how he could help. He managed to turn his tiny television on as he pulled on a fresh shirt, wincing at a throbbing pain on the lower left side of his chest.

At least the pain was centralized, which was always a good sign. Fleeting pain that coursed throughout the body usually signaled more extensive damage.

He hadn't expected there to be anything on the news, knowing that the information of an attack would not be able to be transmitted so quickly. After all, he felt the pain instantly upon impact, but by the time anyone else was informed of any trouble, it was usually quite a bit of time later.

What he did _not_ expect was the wet feeling collecting underneath his clean shirt. Rolling up the cotton material, he placed a careful hand to the newly opened wound, hissing as it stung and continued to bleed profusely.

Bloodshed… If he was bleeding, that meant his people were dying.

He gasped softly at the prickling pain, staggering into the bathroom and trying to rinse the blood away as best as he could even though he knew it would be futile. The bleeding would not stop until the attack was over.

He slumped down to the floor and held his head in one hand while the other stayed stapled to his wound, trying to staunch the blood flow.

He had a pretty good feeling as to what was going on, and he'd be a fool to say that he hadn't suspected it months ago. Both the Allies and the Axis had been trying to get him involved in the war just as they had during World War I. They were playing with beasts that were better left alone again, testing his patience. He knew that he had promised to stay out of European wars, but if they were all so dead-set on calling him a coward and provoking him, he'd give them the show they all wanted and _more_.

Because once _his_ people were threatened, that was when all jokes and teasing were tossed aside.

And by God, whoever did this was going to _pay_—no matter what his past promises had been.

No one and he meant _no one_, messed with his civilians.

Later he'd get countless condolences from the Allies—sugarcoated with fragile words and soft euphemisms.

But he wasn't falling for any of them. He knew what they all wanted, and in a way, he was displeased with having given them the satisfaction of gaining what they most desired, but he had to bring justice home for the innocent Americans who had perished at Pearl Harbor that morning.

The following day, December 8, 1941, he got together with all the representatives in government and aided in declaring war on Japan.

If they wanted to play games, then America was ready to win.

The way he saw it, all was fair in war.

* * *

_The world sure had a funny way of making you feel guilty to the very core._

He could still hear the echoed remains of the air-raid signal thrumming in his ears as he picked through the rubble of the battered streets of Poland, searching and praying for any sign of life. A few houses were still burning in the distance as he and Canada fumbled through the dust and ash, neither daring to speak in the solemn stillness of the air.

When a young, childish voice reached their ears, both of them jumped at the unexpected sound. They both spun on their heels, scanning the gray, winding blocks—both sick with hope.

"Hello? Is anybody there?" America roared through the dust clouds, trying to make out a figure in the distance. He suddenly saw a shadow shrink away from him, sidestepping behind the demolished wall of a building to hide.

Canada squinted his eyes, wiping some dust off of his glasses as he did so. "It's a little girl," he whispered in awe to his brother. "And she probably thinks that we want to kill her."

America suddenly appeared much older and mature as he stood in the stifling sunlight of that spring afternoon, wrinkles appearing in his forehead as he furrowed his eyebrows. "Who would think to hurt a child?" he remarked, kneeling down. "Hello? Are you there? We won't hurt you."

He tried to use his most tender tone of voice, knowing that the girl probably didn't speak English, and thus, didn't have a clue as to what he was saying. Therefore, he hoped a soothing lilt would make it seem universal that he wasn't out to harm anybody.

With strong, childish curiosity, the girl peeked out from behind the wall, hitching a sob as she shuffled away from her hiding spot and worked her way through the veil of dust in front of her. Soon, America's face came into a full, clear view, sending her trembling at the sight of his military uniform.

"Mama! Tata!" (_Mom! Dad!)_ She shrieked, clutching the hem of her shirt for some form of consolation. She sobbed heartbreakingly once more, searching for her parents to no avail as she tried to disregard the two soldiers in front of her.

America got off of his knees and took in the child before him. She had long, dirty blonde hair and light green eyes that were nearly transparent. Her cheeks were littered with small cuts and her nose and eyes were swollen and red from crying, tears still dripping off of her chin as she messed with the end of her shirt uncertainly.

"It's okay," Canada called from behind, beckoning the girl forward. "We'll try to help you find your parents or at least bring you to safety."

The girl blinked at the pair with her tearful eyes and bunny-like nose, taking a few, cautious steps back.

The Canadian wracked his mind for any word of Polish he knew. He had heard a few men speaking it before on his way there, but he couldn't remember any applicable phrases, nor was his pronunciation up to par. Then, he recalled a burnt sign he had seen somewhere previously.

He pointed to himself and America before telling the girl, "Bezpieczne. Bezpieczne." (_Safe. Safe_)

America tilted his head in surprise at his brother, clearly impressed, before nodding and holding his hand out for the girl to come forward and take.

The girl swiped a hand across her face and took a couple of hesitant steps forward, noticing the nearly identical belts with little satchels attached to them on each man's uniform, except one had the abbreviation "US" and the other "CAN".

The girl whimpered and took America's hand, finally understanding that he was on her side and not with the German military. Her family had told her about the strange people being called in from the West to fight in the war. "Pomóż mi," (_Help me_) she begged, still gazing in every direction for any clue as to where her parents might be.

"Oh, sweetheart," America crooned, placing his other warm, calloused hand on the girl's head before stroking her hair. "What have they done to you?"

She cried heavily, shaking with the backbreaking sobs as America and Canada guided her away from the wreckage.

"We have to take her to the hospital to make sure she hasn't sustained any serious injuries. They can find a safe place for her to stay there," Canada assured America, noticing the deep frown lines outlining the other nation's face. The man had always held a soft spot for children.

"You hear that?" America asked the girl affectionately. "We're going to bring you someplace safe, little angel."

She gave each of them a befuddled look, running another small hand over her eyes in distress; she must've been no older than seven years old.

With that, America lifted the girl into his arms and let her sit on his shoulders as they walked, causing a tiny smile to flutter and grace over her quivering lips. "Tatuś zawsze niesie mnie." (_Daddy always carries me.)_

America turned his head to look at the child as he walked, offering her a confident and toothy smile. "By the way, I'm Alfred," he said, directing a thumb at himself. "And you?"

It took a moment for the girl to register what was being asked of her before she wrapped her skinny arms around America's neck and mumbled, "Magda...Magdalena." She held on tightly as America walked, letting her head rest on his shoulder in fatigue.

"A precious name for a beautiful gem like you," America replied affectionately.

"We won't let anything happen to you, Magdalena," Canada murmured, taking out a handkerchief out of his pocket and offering it to the little figure for her to dry her eyes. She gratefully took it from him with a bashful expression, breathing evening out as she relaxed in the presence of her two saviors. She'd been walking around for a good hour or so before she'd spotted the soldiers. Now that she was under the protection of two seemingly trustworthy adults, she allowed exhaustion to catch up with her. With a soft sniffle, she laid her head on America's shoulder, comforted by the warmth of his skin and the muscular arms that were holding her up.

"It really isn't fair," Canada muttered as they walked, eyes morose. "Innocent children are being denied care-free lives left and right. The horrors that they have to endure are unbelievable."

America released a long sigh, petting Magdalena's head once more. "This war will be over soon enough. I'll make sure of it."

"Don't do anything too drastic, Alfred," Canada warned, casting America a suspicious look. "I've heard about the new weapons that you've been testing at home."

America smirked. "You shouldn't concern yourself with such things, Mattie. Your old bro here has got it all under control."

Canada huffed. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

"I'll end this war for you, little darling," America mouthed gingerly, smiling at the sleeping child fondly. "They'll be sorry they ever laid a hand on your people."

Canada frowned grievously.


	7. Through Thick and Thin

"_It is a frightening thought that man also has a shadow side to him, consisting not just of little weaknesses—and foibles, but of a positively demonic dynamism. The individual seldom knows anything of this; to him, as an individual, it is incredible that he should ever, in any circumstances, go beyond himself. […] man turns a blind eye to the shadow-side of human nature. Blindly, he strives against the salutary dogma of original sin, which is yet so prodigiously true. Yes, he even hesitates to admit the conflict of which he is so painfully aware." –Carl Jung_

* * *

_August 6, 1945_

This was the day he regretted the most, even now.

But he was getting ahead of himself—there were other issues to tend to first…

There were no guidelines for being the personification of a landmass; no right or wrong way of doing things. You either succeeded or failed by taking example from your elder nations.

And if there was one thing that America learned during his rise from a collection of colonies to the beginnings of a potential empire, it was that _everyone_ had their shadow.

The significance of being a world superpower had never fazed him outwardly. Every hesitance or moment of weakness was always shielded by a playful joke or overzealous laugh. He clung to his beautiful ignorance like a safety net, acting the part of absent-minded idiot quite impeccably. He thought he had everyone fooled—even England joined in on the game to jump at the opportunity to mock his feigned senselessness.

Normally, nations at the World Conferences never questioned his stupidity as a ploy (or at least that's what America had always liked to think whenever his eyes wandered around the table of representatives).

And to his surprise, it was Canada that almost ruined the entire performance, disappointed eyes chiding him for suppressing his natural state and element. Had the North American country been noticed more frequently, others would have probably caught on to his attempt at a disguise as well.

Eventually, being this overenthusiastic character that pranced around without a care in the world became a coping mechanism for America himself. If he could believe and convince himself that he was dimwitted and unable of accomplishing trivial tasks, he didn't have to acknowledge the extent of his power and the innovation of his citizens and lawmakers. It was when he was an idiot that he was absolved of all responsibility—all of his worrying. All of his problems seemed to stop sprouting the moment he pretended to be blissfully unaware of the world around him.

But there were still those dangerous moments; those moments when he would be stationed alone in his hotel room, getting ready for bed as his brain started a cycling mode of seemingly endless questions. In the solitude of the night, he'd sit by the windowsill just as he had as a child, gazing out into the night while his heart thumped with a painstaking fear of the future.

He'd look down onto the busy streets with envy, wishing he didn't have to be cursed to this life of living centuries upon centuries of similar world affairs over and over again. Rise to power, unrest, civil war, peace, unrest, bloodshed on foreign land, peace, more bloodshed…

It was maddening and never-ending.

And it's on those dangerous nights that America would unwillingly let the questions stream one after another. And another. And another.

Was that what being a nation was all about—just being a visual personification of what a mess the world was always turning into with no hope for the future? After all, he was far from supernatural; he had and always would have the same instincts and capabilities of a human. Sure, he got a much longer life-span, but overall, there was nothing that made him particularly heroic. When he thought about it long enough, he finally understood why he was always striving to prove himself—so he could validate his role on earth, because at the end of the day, he always felt just as insignificant as everybody else. Just another ant in the universe.

And it was that inherited human innocence and childish image of being an important component in the grand scheme of the planet that drove his ambition to stay involved in being a part of the world's superpower. Yet, every time his people grew unhappy, his feelings were mutual. His spirit died each time he masked his true self-identity. On occasions like those nights, his fatigue would show in his reflection of the glass he was staring out of, and he slowly sunk into the clutches of a future he wished he could foresee.

He knew suppressing his emotions wasn't a good tactic. Pretending to be an idiot probably was pretty unhealthy and could cause some real lunacy and mental depletion if he wasn't careful, but America had already dug himself too deep into uncharted territory. By the time he had realized his mistake, it was much too late.

England had notably gone through a brief realization during the war, finding the depression and darkness building in America's eyes the moment it had permanently settled there. He had warned him about doing anything foolhardy, as had Canada, but the fuse had already been lit.

Just after beginning to recover from the Great Depression, the chess board had been set for World War II, causing a string of pain and exhaustion that had little to no relief in between. By the time his scientists had even produced a working atomic bomb, he was suffering from long bouts of insomnia and nightmarish dreams. The unhappiness of his people had directly affected him, leaving him stone-cold and short-tempered often. He jumped into World War II with a frenzy of rage and hatred, waiting to help the Europeans take out Germany and Italy before securing the notion that he himself was going to take care of Japan.

The attack on Pearl Harbor along with the sights he'd seen on the battlefield had considerably numbed him. So much so that when he watched the bomb drop on Hiroshima, he felt absolutely nothing. He was thoroughly hollow and emotionless.

He did not flinch or wince or grimace.

He dared not even blink.

Later, when he'd look back on it, he'd wonder where he'd achieved that merciless indifference, eyes roving over the heavy shroud of smoke that rose thousands of feet into the air, charring his own lungs as he brought himself closer to the epicenter of the damage, knowing he was unable to die from the aftereffects.

"It's over," he'd finally murmured upon returning to his military post countless hours later.

Canada had turned his head away in shock, unable to process the situation as he walked away from the base and into the woods, blood running cold through his veins.

And for the first time in America's life, he'd managed to stun England into fearing him, eyes wild and disbelieving as he fumbled with his helmet.

"This was not how it was supposed to end. You and I both know that," England had firmly stated after regaining his composure. "Do you realize what you've done?"

America simply nodded his head. He hadn't been the sole perpetrator behind the attack, but he certainly didn't do anything to prevent it either. "You all wanted me in the war, but I'm not here to play around. Now it's over—there is no question about that. I ended it. Isn't that what you wanted? The Allies win again."

America's heart seemed to skip with life again when he saw England's eyes glisten in the afternoon light, full of bitter tears. "This is not what I wanted."

America bit down on his lip as hard as he could, startled.

He didn't want this either. He didn't choose to be a nation. He didn't want to have this responsibility. He couldn't handle the power he had collected.

He wished he could just be a human or hero; not stuck in the center any longer.

"I didn't drop the bomb," he defended himself.

"You could've stopped them," England countered.

"I didn't _do_ it though."

England bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, choosing his next words carefully. "You may as well have."

Canada returned then, hands trembling as he hovered by the other pair of nations. America vaguely noticed him before dropping to his knees and succumbing to a nervous breakdown, tears flowing from his face shamelessly in an act of weakness that he wouldn't have tolerated forty-eight hours ago.

He quivered in the dirt, shoulders bucking back and forth as he sobbed quietly. He cried from deep fear as he had when he was a child, always plagued by nightmares and inner demons that, at the time, were still un-foretold and out of sight.

England released his usual weary sigh, signaling the start of his sympathy building. "Come here," he said, kneeling down beside America and guiding his head to his shoulder. "It wasn't entirely your fault. I shouldn't have implied such a thing. These things are rarely the fault of a single person."

America sniveled wetly against the proffered shoulder, tousled hair ruffling as a light gust of wind fluttered about them.

"N-Never as good as Canada—never wise enough," America mumbled repeatedly as he slumped against his ally, replaying the mushroom of smoke that had been visible from the fighter plane.

"Stop that," England replied helplessly, pleading for his former colony to straighten up and gather himself together again.

Upon hearing his name being mentioned, Canada knelt down by the pair as well, placing a warm hand on America's shoulder. "You're not a bad person, and you're definitely a whole lot wiser than you give yourself credit for."

America lifted his head from England's shoulder, swiveling around to face Canada while rubbing a cold hand over his flushed cheeks.

"Still, I'm obviously the better looking one of us," Canada teased a moment later, trying to pull America out of the dark reality of what it meant to be a nation. Sometimes, it was alright to just let go and forget the world for a little while. It was alright to be human.

And Canada knew that America had been deprived of being human for a long time.

America chuckled dryly at Canada's earlier remark, abandoning England's hold on him in exchange for Canada's comfort.

There were many times when an older brother could provide things that a twin never could, especially when said twins were much younger.

But now, the tables had turned.

England weakly smiled as the twins embraced each other.

He hadn't done such a bad job in raising those two after all.

* * *

"Ha! A six! Bottoms up, Al!" Canada exclaimed brightly, elbowing America in the arm.

America groaned in response, picking up his beer bottle and taking a swig before setting it back down and rolling the die that he'd been passed. Was it just him or were his turns growing more frequent?

"Crap… Rolled another one," he slurred, forcing himself to chug some more beer in order to stay in the game.

"You don't look too good, man. You wanna quit?" a stranger sitting next to him at the table asked, rubbing his stubbly chin as he took a sip of his own drink.

"M'fine," America insisted, rolling the die again. "Imma beat Mattie."

"I don't think so, Al. You were never good at holding your liquor," Canada smirked, his head buzzing as he watched the die being passed around the table.

Long story short, America had _graciously_ invited Canada for a couple of drinks at the bar near the hotel they were staying at for the World Conference, insisting that they unwind and play a couple of old games that they hadn't indulged in for a while.

This surprised Canada for two reasons. The first was that America had even offered to pay, which was something that was always reserved for Canada to take care of. The second was that America rarely sought to get drunk. Sure, he'd been tipsy a few times after sharing some vodka with Russia or gin with England, but he seldom got heavily buzzed.

America drank whenever he was invited to drink and that was all. Otherwise, he stuck to his simple coffee addiction and avoided alcohol for the most part. So, naturally, when Canada had been called up at eleven o'clock at night to head out to the bar, he'd been a little skeptical and disbelieving.

After that, Canada offered to invite some of the other nations along, but America had fiercely protested, leaving them to play their beer games with complete strangers.

Eventually, America had no choice but to retreat from the game, stumbling over to the bartender for another Long Island Iced Tea. Unfortunately, the bartender had denied him the beverage, claiming that he'd had enough for one night, and that if he still wanted a drink, he would have to settle for something not as strong.

Needless to say, America got a little upset at that, judgment obviously impaired as he nearly doubled over a bar stool, reaching out to grab the bartender by his apron.

Canada, having the decency to limit his consumption of beer so that he could stay relatively coherent, noticed this and stood up, dragging America away from the scene and grabbing his coat that had been flung across the back of one of the chairs.

"We're going back to the hotel," Canada announced a moment later, passing America his coat and making his way for the exit.

"No! Why so soon? We can't go back yet."

"It's nearly three in the morning, Al. We've been here long enough. The other nations might start wondering where we are. Well, where _you_ are anyway…" Canada frowned, watching as America struggled to aim his arms into his coat sleeves. They probably should've left a long time ago, but Canada had never seen America this drunk before, and truth be told, it was pretty amusing.

America belched, earning a look of disgust from Canada as he staggered out the front door, reaching out an arm to balance himself as he went. Finding nothing to lean on, the nation fell face-first into the cement ground, briefly yelping out in pain as his forehead scraped against the sidewalk.

Canada chuckled and rolled his eyes, feeling a bit dizzy himself as he pulled America up by the arm and urged him to keep moving forward. The man followed with a dazed laugh, finding the bright lights of London hilarious as he nearly got run over by a car when he wandered off from Canada's sight and tried to cross the street by himself.

A blaring honk tore through his ears as Canada snatched him by the waist and pulled him back, saving him from getting crushed.

A brief exchange of startled words took place after that.

"Hey, America? Do you remember where the hotel is?" Canada hopefully murmured a moment later, rubbing his aching temple.

Like a bubbly child, America cocked his head to the side and grinned. "Nope!"

"Great…" Canada cursed under his breath. "If I knew the address, we could get a cab to drive us there… What was the name of the place again? It's on the tip of my tongue…"

While Canada contemplated how to get out of the mess that they'd gotten themselves into and America attempted to remember why he was outside in the first place, a cop car pulled over beside them.

One of the two officers stepped out of the car, walking up to the twins with a serious expression on his face. "What are you two gentlemen doing loitering on a street corner at this time of night?"

Canada's heartbeat quickened, suddenly extremely nervous upon being questioned by the police. "We're just trying to get back to our hotel, officer. We're sorry for the trouble."

America, still in his own world, decided to speak up then, stepping up to the officer with furrowed eyebrows. "Got any beer, ssssir?"

"Bloody Americans," the officer growled out under his breath as America grasped his shoulder and shook the man roughly. America seemed to conjure up a southern drawl when intoxicated. "I'll have you know that it is a public offense to be drunk and disorderly in the United Kingdom, young man. I cannot allow you to wander the city in such a state."

Canada grew panicked, grabbing America by the collar of his jacket and pulling him off of the officer whom he had taken to hugging.

"Hah, you Brits… So uptight..." America mocked, while Canada pleaded him to shut up.

The police officer looked scandalized, eyes stern as he directed his gaze at Canada.

The Canadian tried to explain himself. "Sorry, sir. He's had a little too much to drink."

"Have you been drinking as well?"

Canada fiddled with his thumbs before slapping a hand on America's mouth to keep him from creating anymore outbursts. "Yes, sir. In fact, we happen to be lost."

The cop sighed exasperatedly. "I'll bring you two down to the station and you can call someone to pick you up or you can stay there until you're in a well-enough state to leave. How does that sound?"

"Thank you, officer," Canada replied politely with a nod, swearing as America bit his palm to get him to remove his hand from his mouth.

"Where are we going, Mattie?"

"We're taking a nice trip in the police car, Al… Thanks to your big mouth," Canada responded unhappily as the police officer directed the twins into the back of the car. "We're going to have to call Arthur to pick us up from the precinct."

America protested at that, whining at his brother once more as he tried to get him to change his mind. "Let's call Francis instead, he won't strangle usss."

"Arthur isn't going to strangle us, Al."

"Yesss, he will, Mattie! He doesn't like people wakin' him up."

"Well then, maybe you shouldn't have let yourself get so drunk."

"But you were drinking too!"

"Not as much as you!"

The policemen were not amused with their little argument.

Thankfully, they arrived at the precinct without getting into a fight, during which Canada gave up England's cellphone number to the officer before being handed a phone a minute later.

"H-Hey, England?" he cautiously questioned into the phone, squeezing his eyes shut as the older man began his rant.

"You idiots! I was worried sick when I found out that you two still hadn't returned from your little get-together! Now, I get a phone call at this time of night from the police? You two are going to owe me for this. I'm going to pick you up and then you better get ready to start explaining yourselves!" England's voice pierced Canada's pulsating migraine, leaving him to hold the phone away from his ear and at arm-length to keep himself from obtaining permanent damage to his hearing.

Just when England was preparing to hang up, he stopped himself, suddenly recalling something. "I want to speak with America."

Gladly, Canada passed the phone on to his twin, giving him an expectant look as he did so.

Still not the least bit sober, America laughed into the phone. "Hey, Artie. Have ya got any beer on ya?"

"No, you drunk git. You'd better not be suffering from alcohol poisoning. The only reason I'm agreeing to saving your hide is because you've gotten poor Canada involved as well," England explained firmly. "I'll be there soon, so try not to get into any more trouble."

"Poor Canada? Pssshhh... You shoulda seen him tonight, Artie. I get the feeling there's a lot he doesn't tell us bout himself."

"You don't say?"

* * *

"Just a little bit further. Come on, you tosser! One foot in front of the other! Have you forgotten how to walk?" England snarled as he led America into the hotel room with Canada walking behind them. When they had successfully made it inside, England seated America on the bed and shut the door, leaning against it with a heavy sigh.

"Christ, I'm exhausted. You're both staying in my room until you get a hold of yourselves. You're both still stumbling all over the place. Have you no shame?" England lectured as America collapsed on his bed and laughed at the ceiling.

"Hey, England?" he called out a moment later, eyes unfocused and fluttering about the room.

"What is it?" the green-eyed Brit snapped.

"I lost as beer pong."

"Well, isn't that _fabulous_? God, you smell dead awful… The state of you both! Go take a shower, Canada, while I make sure America doesn't upchuck all over the bed sheets."

"More beer?" America requested quietly, blue eyes blinking up at his old mentor.

England made his way over to the closet and found some spare clothes for the twins to change into later. "No, America. You won't be seeing anymore beer for a _very _long time as long as I can help it. And besides, this isn't like you. You don't normally get drunk. I suppose I can allow it for once, but you'd better not make a habit out of it. Sleep for a while until Canada's done showering."

America glowered, lowering himself onto the pillows and shutting his eyes dutifully. England was by his side a moment later, placing a hand on his shoulder with another heavy sigh.

"I've tried drinking away pain as well, America, and I promise you that it doesn't work. So, please don't do this to yourself anymore."

"Okay… Goodnight, England."

One more sigh for good measure.

Then, "Goodnight, America, you big git. And next time, call me first and don't rely on Canada to bring you home. I'm sure he had a blast out of seeing you lower your guard. You're lucky he didn't take better advantage of the situation," England shook his head and smirked. "You're supposedly adults but still act like children."

"I'm gonna get back at Canada for beating me today. Next time, I'll—"

"Hey, I thought we already established that there isn't going to be a 'next time'!"

"Yeah, yeah, England…" America mumbled, cuddling a nearby pillow. _"We'll see about that."_


	8. In Sickness And In Health

_**January 2013**_

"_**Flu reaches epidemic level in US as virus spreads through Canada… Worst Case in Over a Decade." **_

Must. Not. Get. Sick.

Must. Not. Get. Sick.

America cringed as he chanted the mantra in his head, covering his face with his scarf as the man next to him on the train let out an enormous sneeze, sniffling wetly afterward.

Part of him knew the action was fruitless. It was only natural that since so many of his citizens were getting sick, he'd soon be affected by the virus as well. He could wave off the germs and dodge the phlegm as much as he pleased, but it wasn't going to make the slightest difference.

Still, America was in complete, and utter denial.

He hadn't been ill in God knows how long, and he wasn't going to break the habit now. He was hosting a world meeting next week, and he had to appear in tip-top condition to prove to the others that his country was doing just fine and was on the road to a hasty recovery.

Currently, he was looking for a scapegoat to blame this accumulation of the virus on. He was completely content with placing some of the blame on England, whose citizens had shared the lovely, "winter-vomiting bug" with America's already flu-ridden people. It was a double whammy, really.

He felt his heart skip a beat as his throat become a little dry and scratchy, causing him to painfully swallow.

It was all in his imagination—he was sure of it. If he kept thinking about it so much, he'd definitely get sick. He just had to divert his attention to other matters. Mind over body!

Yes, surely that would work.

Must. Not. Get. Sick.

Will. Not. Get. Sick.

* * *

_The Day of the World Meeting:_

America let a long groan ripple from deep within his throat as he nuzzled his face against his pillow. His alarm clock hollered nearby, urging him to roll out of bed and start off the day. With another unabbreviated moan of indignation, he flung his arm across the mattress and slammed his palm of his hand on the device, intending to hit the snooze button but failing as he knocked the entire mechanism off the bedside table and sent it crashing to the floor, unplugging it from the wall in the process.

"Oops," he murmured belatedly, shivering as he pulled up the covers closer to his body. Every muscle on his being seemed to be rebelling against him that morning, even the gums of his teeth; each aching in its own unique way as he bit down on air. He shuddered as his cellphone vibrated next to his glasses on the clock-less nightstand, signaling a text message. Dejectedly, he snaked his arm out from under the blankets to snag his iPhone, reading the message from Canada with a long sigh.

"_How are you holding up?"_ it read.

America sniffled weakly, typing back a lazy reply. _"I'm just freaking dandy, Mattie. How 'bout you?"_

It took a few moments for Canada's response to get through. _"I think this flu is finally starting to catch up with me. Tell everyone I won't be able to make it to the meeting. I'm staying in the hotel."_

"_Aw, a little flu and itty bitty Mattie is out of commission?"_ America teased, scrubbing a hand across his nose in frustration. Maybe his allergies were acting up…

"_Why aren't you being affect—wait, you're sick too, aren't you? You must be!"_

America bit his lip nervously. There was no way he had the flu. _"No way, man. The hero never gets sick, remember? My immune system is a boss! Anywayz, I have a meeting to host. C u there?" _

Some conniving little voice in the back of his clouded mind told America that Canada was now going to make it a personal challenge to attend the meeting. If his brother America could make it through the conference with the flu, Canada could do so without a problem as well. The last thing he wanted was to appear inferior to his twin!

Sure enough, America had received another text message just thirty seconds later. (Canada had undoubtedly been debating his decision for a good fifteen seconds.)

"_Yeah, I'll be there."_

America smirked, involuntarily snapping his head forward when a sneeze erupted out of his nose and mouth. He gruffly snagged a few tissues off of his nightstand and scrubbed his nose roughly, huffing in disbelief. He could still beat this.

He could NOT be sick. Dejectedly, he sent Canada a final text to end the conversation.

"_OK, bro! :D" _

Tossing his phone aside, he rolled out of bed and stumbled over to his closet, sniffling loudly as he tried to find his dress shirt and tie. He wasn't in the mood to go through the troubling of dressing like a 'ruffian' just to annoy England today, so he'd dress in some more appropriate attire instead. He shrugged on his shirt and changed into his black slacks, mourning over the loss of his sweatpants for a moment. His bed was calling him to return to the blankets and bask in another refreshing hour of sleep, but his schedule just wouldn't allow it.

He rolled his shoulders in a circular motion, as if to shake and massage the fatigue out of his system. Turning away from the disheveled blankets, he slipped on his leather shoes and made his way into the bathroom to fix his hair. With a frown, he noticed that his cowlick, Nantucket, had wilted significantly overnight; something that both Canada and England would surely notice if he didn't do something about it quickly.

Grabbing his hairdryer, he plugged it into the wall and turned it on the highest setting, directing the hot air at the cowlick to force it to set itself upright. Yet, by the time he had turned off the device and returned it into its proper cabinet, the strand of hair had obstinately lowered itself once more.

With a grumble of dissatisfaction, America reached for some hair mousse, working a generous amount into his hands before sculpting the cowlick into the desired position with vigor, begging it to follow his demands.

In the end, it took a fair amount of hair gel, more mousse, and another standoff with the hairdryer to finally get his hair looking like itself again.

Checking his watch frantically, America brushed his teeth and made himself a cup of coffee, opting to skip out on breakfast due to his sudden loss of appetite. His stomach seemed to be making strange gurgling noises, and he didn't want to test the dangerous terrain by filling it with foreign substances.

After that, he grabbed his briefcase and slipped on his bomber jacket, racing to the bus stop to make it for the scheduled morning commute. Thankfully, the bus had arrived no more than a minute after his own arrival. It was as crowded as always, meaning he was going to have to stand as though he was entrapped in a can of sardines, pressed up against a multitude of people.

This wasn't normally an issue, but today seemed to be an exception. By the time he had exited the bus and transferred himself to the train station, he was sweating profusely with cold sweats, causing him to place a cool hand on the back of his neck to rid himself of the awful chills running against his warm skin. Standing on the musky train a moment later, he was sure he was going to collapse at any moment if he didn't sit down.

Fortunately, an uncommonly kind teenager gave up his seat precisely at that moment, asking if America would like to sit down.

Bewildered by the sudden generosity of the boy, he nodded gratefully and thanked him, plopping himself into the seat without hesitation. If random strangers thought he looked ill enough to need to take a seat, then what were his fellow nations going to think when he arrived to the meeting?

When the train finally pulled up to his stop, he rushed out of the wagon and made his way up the stairs before walking the final few blocks to building at which the meeting was being held at. He passed through security and made his way into the elevator, getting off at the fifty-third floor with a breath of relief and another sneeze which he muffled with help from the sleeve of his bomber jacket.

"You took your time getting here."

America jumped in surprise, swiveling on his heel to meet England's stiff figure for the umpteenth time. Hastily he righted himself and tried to discreetly scrub at his nose to eradicate the residue from his little sneezing fit. He all but grimaced in disgust at his own actions.

"Hey, England. Still an early-bird, I see," he playfully teased the other man, trying to come off as energetic and obnoxious as always.

One look at his former guardian told him that the man wasn't buying into the façade.

_Crap._

England advanced on him, inspecting America very carefully in a way that made the young nation feel squeamish.

"Feeling alright, there? I do keep up to date on worldly affairs, unlike some," England began pointedly, antagonizing America coolly as well. "And American politics are, unfortunately, part of that repertoire. Thus, I am well aware of your current predicament. I knew you'd be a stubborn cow and show up anyway, so I decided to humor you by arriving early to make sure you didn't keel over during the journey."

America pushed his glasses up his nose, trying to stifle another sneeze as his exhausted brain tried to process everything that England was saying. That man sure liked to give everyone an earful…

"What are you trying to say?" he found himself asking to avoid the long background history of whatever the nation was going to lecture him about.

"That you are in no condition to host this conference. You ought to go back home," England urged, eyeing his former colony critically. "Be sensible for once in your life."

America battled against the temptation to sneeze, eyes somber. "Not an option, dude. The chocolate-chip muffins have already been delivered and set out. We don't want them to go to waste. Those babies are expensive. So, see you inside the meeting room?"

England crossed his arms over his chest, trying to paint himself as someone who was extremely peeved and unconcerned. "The meeting has been cancelled for your own good. Go home, drink some tea, and get back to us in four to seven days."

"WHAT? You can't just cancel a meeting that I'm hosting without my permission!" America gawked, fever-glazed eyes glimmering with weary rage.

England shook his head with a sigh and reached out a hand to feel America's forehead, only for the gesture to be slapped away by the American a second later. "I already spoke to your boss, and he agreed with the decision. I'm supposed to escort you back to your house in one piece."

"But I'm perfectly fine!"

"You don't say?" England rolled his eyes with the hint of a smile. America had always had problems with admitting weakness since he was a child. "How about we put off this fight until you're better suited to take part in it, hmm?"

America unclenched his teeth and opened his mouth to utter some hurtful words in England's direction, but had to stop himself when his stomach flipped over on its side. He slammed his mouth closed again and hurriedly threw a hand up to his lips before racing for the nearest restroom, leaving a stunned England to race after him.

He kicked open the stall door and fell to his knees, regretting not having the time to lock it as he retched violently into the toilet.

A moment later, a firm hand was placed on his upper back, soothingly patting the area before another hand slithered its way under his sweaty bangs and slicked his dark blond hair back. He wanted to kick England in the groin and push him away, frustrated with himself for allowing himself to be seen in this vulnerable state, but his body wouldn't allow him to rebel. His limbs loosened under England's touch as he brought up more saliva along with the coffee he'd ingested a little over an hour ago.

"I'm quite sorry about that, truly. I hadn't meant to share the winter-vomiting bug with you as soon as I had recovered. Unfortunately, I can't control what my citizens spread onto yours," England apologized sincerely. "It's downright awful, I'm afraid, especially combined with the flu."

America merely groaned, flushing the toilet after he was done and sitting back on his heels.

England offered one of his rare, genuine smiles in a sympathetic way, patting his little brother's shoulder with a sigh. "Let's say we get out of here, take you home, and forget this ever happened?"

America almost nodded at the suggestion, wanting nothing more than to curl up in bed again with some comic books close at hand, but had to decline after remembering that Canada was still on his way, and that he had to prove to his twin that he hadn't given up in proving to him that he was fine. He couldn't lose to that hoser this time!

"I can't, I'm meeting someone," he explained with a wince at how terrible his voice sounded.

England stood up and wet some paper towels in the sink before passing them over to America so that he could clean himself up. "Who on earth could you be meeting at a time like this? In any case, you can call them and relay to them that you aren't available today. Now, I'm going to call a cab so that you won't have to take the subway again."

America scowled, knowing that refusing wasn't going to do him any good. England was going to drag him back home no matter what. Luckily, just as they were exiting the restroom a few minutes later, they bumped into Canada.

Well, more like America nearly trampled him because he hadn't noticed he was there, but regardless, his twin had stuck to his word also.

"Hey, guys. Has the meeting started yet?" Canada asked softly, voice strained.

Too put it lightly, England was furious to see that Canada had showed up when he had given France strict orders to keep the young nation in the hotel room. He roughly gripped America's wrist in one hand and Canada's in the other, pulling them both into the elevator with him and into the awaiting cab down on the busy street.

"I cannot believe the lot of you! Why do something so foolish when you are both _clearly _under the weather. Have you any common sense? I expected this from Alfred, but you, Matthew?" Arthur ground out each word with bitter disappointment as the trio stood in the empty elevator. He stamped a hand onto Canada's forehead, shaking his head in disbelief when he felt the heat that rested under the skin there.

"I'm sorry for making you worry, England. America said he was coming to the meeting and that he expected me to show up as well so—"

A vein pulsated on England's forehead. "Ah, so this was another one of your silly competitions? See who can drop dead last, eh? Can't you two act your age for once? Responsible adults would have never been in this position in the first place because they would have received their flu shots."

America stuck his tongue out with an airy laugh. "My immune system needs the practice! Besides, vaccines are for squares."

England narrowed his eyes. "I got vaccinated."

"Thanks for proving my point, bro," America grinned, patting England's shoulder pityingly. "I'll just head home now, since I know that I haven't lost any bets. I'm gonna cancel one of your meetings, England. Y'know, to even the score eventually."

The doors of the elevator finally opened, and the trio filed out of it.

"Anyway, I'll see you guys later. If you get the urge to call me, don't!" America exclaimed, planning to escape the premises as soon as possible.

"Not so fast, lad," England interjected, grabbing America's arm and pulling him back. "You didn't think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?"

America slumped his shoulders. "Nope, but I was hoping I could. Then, you had to go and kill my dreams."

England led them through the lobby and out onto the busy street, ushering them into the cab that he had asked for. "We're all going to your house, Alfred. There, you'll kindly offer one of your ample guestrooms to Canada, so that he doesn't have to spend the next week recovering in a stuffy hotel suite."

"Ugh, and then you'll finally leave and get off of our case, right?" America questioned optimistically, still hoping that England wouldn't subject himself to babysitting them.

England ruffled America's hair as he sneezed to irritate his nose further. "Sorry to rain on your parade, but no. Then, I'll be watching over the pair of you, since you're obviously both feverish and unable to take care of yourselves. You proved to me that you're both still children after today's display."

Canada and America simultaneously groaned.

"You know how he gets at times like these. His bedside manner is horrible," America relayed to Canada before coughing roughly into his twin's shoulder.

"Ugh, Alfred. Would it kill you to cover your mouth?" Canada grimaced, pushing the ill nation off of him with a sigh.

America scrubbed a hand over his cherry-red nose. "It's not like I'm gonna get you sick. You're already sick, anyway, so it doesn't matter!"

"Still, it's proper hygiene," Canada chided, sounding an awful lot like England when he did that.

* * *

When the cab pulled up to America's house, the nation took out his keys and unlocked the door, flipping on the light as he stepped inside and allowed the others in. "Welcome to La Casa De Los Estados Unidos."

Canada raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "You've been brushing up on your Spanish?"

America smiled proudly. "Yeah, well I thought that since Mayor Bloomberg of New York has started speaking and reading his announcements in Spanish, I should give it a try too."

"You should work on the accent… It's a little… Well, it's really bad," Canada admitted provokingly, squawking indignantly when his twin hit the back of his head in retaliation.

England hung up his coat on the coat rack in the doorway, quite familiar with America's house due to his many visits. "That's enough of that, lads. America, find a room and a change of clothes for Canada, if you don't mind."

America huffed, muttering under his breath, "Two minutes in my house and he's already ordering me around."

England ignored the comment for the meantime. "And then I want both of you in bed so that I can further assess the situation and your conditions. According to the news, this isn't your everyday case of sniffles."

"Assess our conditions?" America pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and met his former guardian's eyes. "I can assess my own condition just fine. Besides, I remember all the horrible things you used to do to me when I was a colony."

England smiled wanly. "Oh, yes, I was _such_ a terrible brother for sitting at your bedsides all night, treating fevers, reading countless stories, and singing multiple lullabies."

"I meant your old-fashioned 'remedies'," America shuddered, recalling the memories with a shiver down his spine.

England waved off the critique. "Home-remedies are the most effective. Now, stop chatting and get Canada settled. I'm sure he's had enough of your nonsense for one day."

Canada smirked cheekily, glad that he always was on the receiving end of England's good-side.

America pouted, but led Canada upstairs anyway, finding him a suitable room right next to his and giving him one of his plain white t-shirts to sleep in along with a pair of fleece sweatpants.

Shortly after, Canada stepped out of the bathroom down the hall with a mischievous smile on his face. "You're getting kind of fat, America. These pants are kind of big on me."

America blushed, offended. "They're sweatpants. They're supposed to be big."

"Whatever you say," Canada replied with a sneeze, poking fun at the self-conscious nation before lying down on the cozy bed that was inviting him to sleep. He thanked his brother shortly, dismissing him from the room a minute later as he tiredly allowed himself to recuperate.

Meanwhile, America made his way back to his room and changed out of the clothes that he had put on for the postponed meeting. He thoughtfully dressed himself in matching attire to that of Canada's, knowing it was a pet peeve of the other nation. Canada hated it whenever England suggested they wear matching outfits as children. Being twins, Canada had made futile attempts at making himself stand out from America, always trying to look different even though they had nearly identical physical features.

Then, he pulled out his iPad and began surfing the web while listening to some music, yawning absent-mindedly every time a particularly slow song would lull him. He was even beginning to doze off until he felt another presence come into the room.

"You're supposed to be resting," England frowned, walking up to the bed and attempting to feel America's forehead again. Once more, his hand was swatted away.

"I am resting," America insisted, setting his iPad down and meeting England's eyes challengingly.

England took a seat at the edge of the bed, causing America to have to move his legs to make space. "Why must you be such a difficult patient? Canada was obediently taking a nap when I went in to check on him. You on the other hand, enjoy making my job difficult. Now, let me check your temperature to make sure your brain isn't frying as we speak."

The nation procured a thermometer that he had brought into the room with him, using separate color-coded ones for each of the twins. He took the blue device out of its case and turned it on.

"Under your tongue," he ordered, flourishing his hand as he did so to emphasize the command.

Begrudgingly, America reluctantly parted his lips, allowing England to adjust the thermometer in the correct position before the nation withdrew his figure once more. He wandered to and fro about the house while waiting for the reading to be finished, carrying some extra supplies into the room and laying them on the bedside table. Among them were a bottle of Motrin, a cool compress, a fresh box of tissues and some fruit flavored cough drops.

America frowned at the items, already annoyed with England's fussing. "Yuh dwon't havta—"

"Not a peep out of you until the reading is done!" the elder nation hissed instantaneously in response, effectively shushing his patient.

Fortunately, the thermometer beeped just then, signaling an end to America's vow of silence for the time being as England retracted the stick from his mouth and examined it with a long sigh.

"A hundred and two, point one. That's nearly thirty-nine degrees in Celsius. You're burning up."

He retrieved the cold compress that had been set aside and bathed America's face with it before setting it on his brow, all the while keeping up the look of distaste on his face. He fished out a spare blanket from a nearby storage closet and tucked the nation in snuggly, slapping down the urge to smooth out his former colony's hair just as he used to do.

"For once in your life, stay put," he said, thin-lipped.

America grinned devilishly, blue eyes alight. "I'll try—since you asked so politely."

England merely scowled, leaving the room briefly to collect a glass of water. He passed America two pills of Motrin, watching as the young man tossed the medication into his mouth before taking the proffered water from England and taking a greedy sip.

England took the empty glass back, adjusting America's blankets once more before heading to the doorway of the bedroom.

"I'm going to make some tea, and find a suitable… basin for you to make use of if you feel nauseous again. I apologize once more for spreading the bug to your citizens. There wasn't much that could be done to keep it contained. A few days of rest and you'll be just fine," he promised, turning out the light as he spoke. "Try to sleep. Don't hesitate to call me if you need something, and I _mean_ it, America. Don't prance around the house in your condition. I'd hate to have to take a trip to the hospital in this cold weather."

America simply groaned, burrowing into his blankets as a strong sneeze erupted out of him, rattling his entire body as he tried to settle back down.

"Bless you."

"Stop smothering me, England. I'll be fine, so don't worry."

"If I had a quid for every time you've said that phrase…" England trailed off, shutting the door halfway as he retreated into the lit hallway, still carrying the empty glass. He'd always wondered how he had managed to refrain from obtaining a heart attack while raising those two boys. Perhaps, he had always underestimated the extent of his patience.

America, on the other hand, was silently plotting a way to set up another bet with Canada to make the entire house-arrest situation much more bearable. If he was going to be stuck in bed for the next few days, then Canada was definitely going to go down with him.

And he knew just where to start.

He was going to need some more cough drops and a deck of cards...


	9. In Sickness And In Health II

**Summer is here! Expect more frequent updates soon! :) I just have two more exams left. **

* * *

It was true what they said about siblings; it was impossible to have the same kind of love/hate relationship with anyone else in life.

At least, that's what America pondered over as he tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep due to the discomfort caused by his fever. There were simply things in life that he supposed couldn't be done with anyone else but a sibling.

America knew that this was especially true for twins.

If not for Canada than to whom would he spill his secrets to and laugh over stupid, inside jokes? Who was going to meet up with to talk about the nostalgic memories of the past and the days when his biggest fear was of a hairy monster, which he'd thought lurked inside the bathroom at night? Who was going to have movie nights with him and make him pancakes for breakfast whenever he visited? Most importantly, who was going to pull pranks on him and engage in crazy bets?

He was able to hang out with Canada without any pretense. He didn't have to worry about angering him because he knew that they were eventually going to reconcile anyway. They were equals in each other's eyes. When around each other, it was like they were children once more—carefree and joyful in the purest sense of the word. They really hadn't aged a bit, and would probably remain that way even upon reaching a ripe age that would leave them wrinkly and chuckling in matching, rickety, rocking chairs.

And America sincerely appreciated that (though he'd never dare to admit it).

As pearls of sweat began to make themselves known on his forehead, he clamored out of bed and took a spare blanket with him before tip-toeing across the hallway and into the guestroom, soundlessly pushing open the door; he was too restless to stay put.

"Pst? You sleeping, dude?"

A muffled grumble rose up from underneath the bedcovers, reverberating throughout the dimmed room. "Not anymore, America. What do you want?"

America bounded further inside, stretching out on the bed next to his twin and making himself comfortable. "I can't sleep," he plaintively whined, eyeing the closed curtains that were keeping the afternoon sunlight out of the room.

"Why's that? Are you still scared of the imaginary alligator under your bed? Should I call England to go check it out?" Canada teased playfully, nudging America in the arm.

"No! I'm not a little kid anymore!" America defended unhappily, stealing some of Canada's blankets to keep warm as a chill tore through his body. Why couldn't he just fast-forward through his sickness? Apparently, nature simply loved to drag things out through their full course. "I just feel like crap, and don't tell England I'm in here or he'll throw another hissy fit because he thinks I'm sleeping right now. If we keep quiet, we might be able to fool him into staying downstairs for another hour or so because he'll be afraid of accidentally waking us up."

Canada sighed, sitting up cautiously to keep from getting tangled up in the hoard of blankets. "Fine, but after an hour, you go back to your room, okay? I can only keep you entertained for so long before I start nodding off."

"Whatever you say, bro. I hope you're in the mood for cards. What do you say to a round of Texas Hold'em?" America suggested, pulling out the box of cards that he had snagged before venturing out of his room.

"Since I have no choice…" Canada surrendered, watching as America sat up as well and pulled out the deck. Then, he pried the cards out of his brother's hands and began to shuffle them properly. "I'll shuffle them just to make sure you don't cheat."

America pretended to look shocked. "And since when have I ever cheated?"

"Since the beginning of time. I know you too well to fall victim to your schemes." Canada replied slyly, sniffling slightly as he dealt out one card for each of them. "Highest card deals first. What are we betting?"

"England's supply of cough drops," America grinned, digging in the pocket of his sweatpants and pulling out a handful that he had stored for future use. Then, he flipped over his card and took the deck out of Canada's reach. "I got an Ace. I'm the dealer first."

America handed dealt out two cards each, face down. "I'm betting my watermelon cough drop for this one."

"I'll bet two of my horrible honey-flavored ones, then," Canada murmured, tossing the candies onto the center of the bed. "It's a good thing we aren't betting actual money; it would rack up your debt even more."

America rolled his eyes and let out a scratchy sneeze. "Oh, shut up. My economy is actually starting to do better, for your information. It's the entirety of Europe that we should be worried about. Well, except Germany of course. His damn country always pulls economic miracles out of thin air."

Canada smirked while raising the bet once more. "I doubt that you're actually concerned at how things are on the other side of the pond."

"I'm surprised at you, Mattie. Why are you always thinking so lowly of me? You really are just like ol' England," America noted with a whisper, trying to keep the conversation hushed and unnoticeable from downstairs.

"England doesn't think lowly of you. Well, not _really_ anyway. He's actually pretty confident in your ability to bounce back even though he doesn't say it because he's too busy pretending to be irritated with the world," Canada assured, folding his hand. "And if you were really upset at him insulting you, you would've kicked him out of your life completely."

America sighed heavily and let out a string of harsh coughs, muffling them in his fist. How could he ever even imagine getting rid of England? Sure, their relationship was complicated. They were brothers, but not in the biological sense, which made things a bit trickier. Plus, he was more of a father figure. He couldn't have stupid discussions with England as he did with Canada because the nation was far older and had to be shown at least some amount of respect due their history together. There was a line that wasn't allowed to be crossed with the other man, and they both knew it.

And yet, America still felt that he needed England in his life because whenever he was in a sticky situation or in danger, he still looked for protection within England and not Canada. When times were tough, he didn't want a twin, he wanted someone older to take control, just as when he'd been a colony. In a sense, his childish need to be shown genuine, unconditional care had never really been outgrown. He supposed it was to be expected considering how quickly he'd been forced to mature and handle a nation of his own.

He coughed roughly once more, chest burning and aching from the force.

"Make sure you don't cough up a lung," Canada grimaced, patting his brother's back. "So much for staying quiet."

"I'm fine," America responded promisingly, face turning red as he tried to steady his breathing, but every time he inhaled, he would feel a persistent tickle in his chest that forced him to continue coughing violently.

"No, you're not, you liar. You need to drink some water," Canada ordered, abandoning their game momentarily.

And, imminently, England promptly arrived with an ill-tempered look on his face, glaring at America accusingly. He shook his head at the evidence of the forgotten mess of cards and exited the room, returning hastily with a fresh glass of water and offering it to the spluttering American with a long sigh. He kept from commenting until America had settled down again and sprawled out across the bed.

"You're supposed to be in bed, America, not playing poker," England scolded softly in order to refrain from giving his former colony a stronger migraine. He loomed over the bed and put a hand on America's forehead, checking his temperature. "I wouldn't insist that you be bedridden if I didn't think you needed it. You can sneak into Canada's room and be a cheeky brat once you're on the mend."

"Technically, I am in bed," America smiled dryly, clearing his throat roughly.

"America," England growled and put his hands on his hips impatiently. "Go back to _your_ designated sick room, if you'd please. I'll take it that you haven't gotten a second of sleep. You've also hindered Canada's recovery."

America frowned, but bid Canada farewell, leaving him to clean up the aftermath of their 'gambling' session as he went back to his own bed. As he got himself comfortable again, he looked up at England balefully. "I can't sleep because of the fever and congestion. I might just upchuck on your shoes too, man."

England scowled in disgust, hitting America lightly on the leg. "If you weren't feeling well, you could've told me, and I would've helped you. After all, that is why I'm here. I trust you won't waste my time any longer. I'll get you a cold compress for your head, a wastebasket so you don't have to get out of bed if you feel nauseous, and I'll dig out the humidifier you have stored somewhere in the closet to help you breathe."

America furrowed his brows guiltily, feeling conflicted over having England doting on him. "You really don't have to do that. I'll be fine without—"

"I don't want to hear it. If I'm going to invest my time to help, then I'm going to make sure the time spent is worthwhile and effective," England interjected firmly, leaving no room for further discussion. "Just shut your eyes and try to relax. I'll take care of everything else."

Grumpily adhering to the instruction, America drew the comforter around himself snuggly once more, laying his aching head on the cool pillow. He heard England shuffle back and forth a few times before feeling an icy washcloth being placed on his forehead, causing him to shiver and tremble in shock from the sudden change in temperature. He hadn't realized how hot he had been until the compress started doing its job.

"Sorry about that," England apologized gently, pressing down on the washcloth before letting it rest in place. "You'll adjust to it."

The hum of the humidifier followed, lulling America's reeling mind as he quietly coughed and broke up the congestion in his lungs. He blew his nose miserably and closed his heavy-lidded eyes, overwhelmed with exhaustion, but unable to rest comfortably even after all of England's ministrations.

"Hmm," the green-eyed nation murmured, taking a seat next to America on the bed. "I see that you're going to need some help in falling asleep. Perhaps a distraction would help? I don't suppose a story will help like it used to when you were a colony?" he smiled a wiry smile, stamping a hand to the other's face to feel the intensity of the fever.

America blearily cracked open one eye, giving in to his fatigue. "Tell me a story about when Canada and I were kids."

"Oh, there are many," England sighed wistfully before standing up and heading to the nightstand a few feet away to rummage through some supplies. "Do you remember the time when Canada accidentally swallowed a watermelon seed, and you told him that a watermelon was going to grow inside of his stomach? The poor lad cried for hours before I could convince him otherwise."

America snickered deviously while suddenly remembering to pluck his glasses off of his face before setting them on his bedside table. "I remember that. I specifically told him that he was going to explode."

"Such a troublesome child," England droned with a shake of the head. "Or the time we found out that you're terribly allergic to shellfish."

America winced, trying to dispel the unpleasant memory. "Ugh, that was one of the worst experiences of my life. My entire face was swollen for days. I'll never touch a lobster again. Then again, I'd rather be allergic to shellfish than beestings like Canada."

"Ah, yes. I was reluctant to even let him go outdoors during the warmer seasons due to that pesky allergy of his."

America cleared his throat and sighed. "Not all of the memories were good ones…"

"Lord knows that's true," England agreed returning back to America's side with more water—bottled this time. "But we can't always have sunshine and daisies. Truth be told, I wouldn't want it anyway. I hope you know that I don't regret having any of my colonies in the first place, not even for a minute."

America lowered his eyes, suddenly feeling very hollow and frigid inside despite his raging fever. "You sure about that? I was a pain in the neck," he murmured, trying to sound playful and amused but failing miserably.

England sat beside America once more, a little frown working its way onto his face. "I'm certain, lad. I wouldn't take back any minute of it. Besides, I very well knew that I wouldn't be able to hold onto you forever, nor did I have any right to do so. You were always such a _free-spirited_ and cheerful child, and it was never my place to keep you tied to the likes of an empire such as myself. You were always destined to pave your own road. Of course, I wasn't chuffed to bits about it, but the truth isn't always in our favor."

America nodded contently. The invitation of sleep was finally overcoming him, and he drew the blankets closer to his chest. "Thanks, England."

"What for?"

"For everything," America mumbled, falling asleep.

England sighed, standing up. "More trouble than he's worth…"

* * *

The sound of his phone vibrating was what woke Canada up from his light doze, and he quickly answered it without sparing a second to check the caller ID.

"_Mon cher Mathieu! Are you well? You weren't in the hotel room and—"_

Canada rubbed his eyes and turned over on his side. _"Bonjour, Francis. I'm at Alfred's house since we're both ill."_

There was a flurry of movement on the other side of the line. _"Mon Dieu! Both ill? I'll be there as soon as I can to make sure you're okay."_

Canada immediately felt himself gain awareness after that statement. _"I'm fine, Francis. You don't have to come over. England is already here to help us out."_

"_Angleterre? I can't trust him to take care of you, mon lapin. You need warm broth and tea, but that __Britannique__ cannot be left in the kitchen. I have Amérique's address and am on my way," Francis_ assured, preparing to end the call.

"_I'm not a child, anymore. It's alright,"_ Canada protested, knowing that having France and England in the same household was never a good mix.

Canada could almost hear France smiling through the phone. _"You'll always be a child to me, mon cher. Au revoir!"_

A click followed, signaling the end of the conversation. Canada sighed and put his phone back on the nightstand, running a hand through his hair with a wide yawn.

Then, the door creaked open slowly, revealing England's concerned green eyes.

"Canada? Are you alright? I heard you talking on the phone," he interrogated, standing in the doorway.

"I'm okay, thanks. France called to ask how I'm doing. He insisted on visiting to check up on me. I tried to get him to change his mind…"

England crossed his arms. "That bloody frog thinks that I can't handle the situation on my own?"

"No, I'm sure it's nothing personal against you," Canada lied smoothly and reassuringly. "He's just worried. You would do the same thing if you were in his place. In fact, you're doing it right now."

England begrudgingly nodded his head and relented, moving his arms to rest at his sides again. "Alright, but he's only staying for a moment and not a minute longer!"

"Whatever you say," Canada said before sneezing softly. "How's America holding up?"

England patiently passed the younger nation a wad of fresh tissues. "He's sleeping, though I doubt it's doing him much good with all of the tossing and turning that he's been doing. I'll have to wake him soon if he doesn't settle down. The last thing I want is for him to fall off of the bed and hurt himself."

Canada sniffled quietly. "Sorry to hear that. I'm sure he'll be fine. If it's not a problem, I think I'm going to head to the living room for a while. It's getting kind of stuffy in this room, and I could use a change of scenery."

"That's fine. Do you need any help getting settled downstairs?"

"That's okay. I'll manage."

England narrowed his eyes. "Are you sure about that? You aren't going to lie to me like America, are you?"

Canada smiled in a sickly- sweet manner. "Of course not."

England chuckled with a roll of the eyes. "Alright, off you go then. Rest on the couch for a bit. I'll be downstairs as soon as I make sure that America's not a serious hazard to himself."

And with that, Canada gathered his cellphone, pillow and blankets before treading his way downstairs, wondering when France was going to make an appearance. It certainly wouldn't be long now.

* * *

"Calm down. It's just a nightmare."

America groaned loudly, head pounding and feeling like lead as he peeled his eyes open to meet the world. There was a hand on his shoulder that was massaging his stiff muscles there in a soothing manner. It was a welcome gesture after all of the pain that was pelting his limbs upon awakening.

"What time is it?" he rasped, reaching out a hand and blindly searching for something to grasp for reassurance.

"Just after six o'clock. You've been sleeping for nearly two hours. You need to try to eat something, now," England replied, removing his hand from America's shoulder and sitting back in the chair that he had dragged next to America's bedside.

He coughed painfully. "Where's Canada?"

"In the living room, watching television."

"Lemme go downstairs to talk to him."

England shook his head. "Not yet. Like I said, you need to eat, and then you need to bathe because you're drenched in sweat from your fever breaking."

America suddenly noticed his damp hair and shirt with disgust, groaning once more to express his unhappiness with the entire predicament.

"How is Amérique?"

America's head shot up, causing his migraine to pulsate as he watched the other European nation step into the room. "France? What are you doing here?"

"Making sure Angleterre hasn't poisoned Mathieu or yourself," France replied coyly. "I already gave Mathieu a lecture on how to take better care of one's health; you missed it."

"It's alright. I think England's already got that covered. I'm surprised he hasn't kicked you out yet."

England glowered and opened his mouth to speak, but France interjected him without missing a beat. "He needed my _fantastique_ culinary skills. I made a _délicat_ soup, if you'd like to try it."

"Sounds great," America said honestly, sitting up and removing the cold compress off of his forehead.

England, however, seemed to be opposed to the idea, which really wasn't much of a surprise. "You should start with some water and saltines before you have any of what the frog's made," he recommended, passing America a new water bottle and a small plate of unsalted crackers. "Have a few and then you'll clean up and change out of these sodden clothes."

"Ugh… Whatever you say England. Sorry France, I promise to at least try some later," America promised, feeling a little guilty that everyone was going through so much trouble for his sake.

"_Qui_,I understand. Angleterre can be a mother-hen."

"I most certainly am not! I'm doing what any conscientious nation would do to be of assistance," England defended his actions, eyebrows furrowed.

France smirked slyly and offered England a wink before turning toward America. "You know, Amérique, there was a time when Angleterre wouldn't let me touch a hair on Mathieu's head, let alone yours. Everything changed after the revolution of course, but as much as it pains me to admit it, he did a good job of protecting you both. He reminded me of a furious mother bear, snapping at the smallest movement directed at a cub. It was very impressive. He could sniff out danger from a mile away. He tried to maul me many times."

America laughed hoarsely, choking a bit on his water. He poked England in the ribs jokingly. "That sounds like a pretty accurate description, man. Imagine that; England as a bear. Kinda scary if you think about it."

"Alright, I've had enough of you both," England huffed, blushing comically. He crossed the length of the room and directed a finger at France's chest menacingly. "He's yours for now. I'm going to join Matthew in the living room, seeing as he is more civil than you lot."

America pouted. "Aww, England, don't be that way. We were just kiddin'."

"You always had the easier twin as a colony," England murmured to the Frenchman, disappearing down the hallway.

France smiled mischievously. "Let him go. He needs a break. So, Amérique, it's been a while since we've been able to talk. How have things been?"

"Dude, you have no idea!" America began animatedly. "You have to check out our new drones. I can have my people send you over a few to test out. It's pretty awesome. Just don't tell England I told you because he won't be too happy about it. I offered him the chance to try 'em out as well, but you know how he is; all posh and unwilling to try anything remotely cool."

France listened to America ramble for a good fifteen minutes, all the while brooding over how much he'd missed spending time with the twins.

* * *

"Can we please change the channel already?"

"No! I love the twelfth cycle of 'America's Next Top Model'!"

"We've seen it so many times, and every time you start complaining for hours about how Allison should've won."

"Of course she should've won! Teyona was hot too, but Allison was way more original and took better photos."

"I don't want to hear this again. Just please change the channel."

"But nothing else is on at this time!"

"How do you know if you have been watching this marathon for two hours? CHANGE THE CHANNEL."

England and France exchanged glances in the kitchen, tilting their heads in confusion at the argument taking place between the twins in the living room. Both nations walked onto the scene, cups of tea at hand as their eyes roved over the forms of Canada and America sprawled out on the couch together, covered in a pile of blankets and fighting over the remote control.

Canada gripped America's wrist firmly, trying to get him to loosen his hold on the remote. "I've had enough of Tyra Banks for one day!"

"Dude, come on this is the best episode! This is the one where they are on the beach in their swimsuits!"

"Is that the only reason you watch this show? For the half-naked girls? You pervert."

America began lying through his teeth. "That's not true! I watch it for the art of modeling!"

England cleared his throat loudly, trying to break up the fight. "Gentlemen?"

"Give it here!"

"Make me!"

"I plan to!"

France chuckled merrily and sipped at his tea, watching as England set down his own cup on the coffee table and tried to pry the two nations off of each other.

"You're both acting like children! France, make yourself useful and help me!"

"I prefer to remain nonaligned, _mon cher_."

England finally managed to get through to the twins by snatching the remote out of America's hand at just the right moment.

The effect was instantaneous. Both nations frowned in unison. "HEY!"

"That's quite enough!"

"It's my house and my T.V, so I get to choose what we watch," America said sternly, folding his arms over his chest in stubborn pursuit of his goal.

England lifted the remote and wagged it in a chiding manner. "While you are under mine and France's supervision, the house is shared, and as the guests, we should be treated with more respect. I see that after many years of lecturing, you two still haven't learned how to properly share with one another."

Canada lowered his eyes and muttered, "More like America didn't learn how to share."

"Sharing is communism," America stated petulantly.

England scoffed. "That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. This household is a democracy, and I'm requesting a compromise in this situation. Now, can we please have a bipartisan agreement?"

Canada and America glared at one another in silence before America decided to open his big mouth again. "Our countries may all be democracies, but this is my property and I declare it a fascist state with me as the leader of the totalitarian rule."

A vein on England's temple twitched. "America…"

"Fine, fine," America sighed wearily. "This is my manor and therefore we have a system of feudalism. You guys are my serfs working on the manor, and I, in turn, offer you guys my heroic protection from outsiders."

Canada intervened. "In that case, I call for a revolution. Down with the _bourgeoisie_! Long live Marxism! Equality for all oppressed peasants!"

America's eyes widened. "Who would've thought my own twin would turn out to be a no good commie?"

"I'd rather be a communist than a fascist!"

America gasped. "Oh, no you did not!"

England brought a hand to his head in frustration. "That's it! If you both can't make a compromise, then neither of you will get to watch television! It's about time that both of you went to bed anyway. Out, now! I want you both upstairs and out of sight!"

Both twins stood up and gathered their blankets and pillows, grumbling to each other grimly the entire way.

"England's the real dictator around here, considering he's still clinging to his monarchy," America whispered to Canada, thinking they were out of earshot.

Canada nodded with a dry smile. "Tell me about it."

Meanwhile, England turned to face France, still fuming. He took a tentative sip of tea to relax himself before casting daggers in France's direction and saying, "You can have them both if you'd like."

France shook his head, biting down a grin. "No, _merci_."


	10. Family and Folly

**Author's Note:** Guess where I'm heading next week! I'm heading into America's vast backyard that is Canadia... I mean Canada. xD I can't wait! Finally, I'll be out of this summer heat wave.

* * *

America rubbed his nose fiercely and sniffled, twisting up his face in repugnance of his own bodily fluids. How was it possible that after two whole days of being stuck in bed, his sinuses still seemed to be clogged to the maximum capacity? He'd been blowing his nose into tissues every ten minutes, and yet the congestion seemed never-ending. To make matters worse, his poor nose was now beet-red and stung whenever he treated it too harshly.

Thankfully, a gentle knock on his bedroom door stirred him from his sulking.

"No one's home! The hero is off duty!" he called to the visitor with a croak before throwing a blanket over his head and decidedly choosing to hide from the rest of the world. As an afterthought, he added, "If it's France, then no, I haven't seen your comb, and I don't want another cup of tea. If it's England, then sorry if I woke you up with my sneezing again, and no, I don't want any tea. If it's Canada, then do your bro a favor and just smother him with a pillow already because he can't live under these conditions any longer, and no, he doesn't want any damn tea."

Canada's soft laugh made itself present as he stepped into the room, shaking his head in disbelief at America's pitiful figure sprawled out under the mound of blankets he'd been supplied with.

"Well, thank goodness I didn't bring any tea," he said cordially before tearing away the blankets that his twin had been hiding under and tossing them aside.

America glared and shivered slightly from the loss of warmth. "Europeans always think they can cure anything with enough tea. Apparently, you think so too."

"Blame France and England for raising us under their European cultures," Canada replied with a shrug. "Remember the little tea parties that we used to have when we were kids?"

America scowled and tried to extinguish the burning feeling in his cheeks from the recollection of the memory. "Yeah, you had plenty of dumb ideas."

Canada raised an eyebrow at his brother, fully aware that it had been, in fact, America who had coordinated the tea parties in the first place. It was no coincidence that he would later name an event in his history the 'Boston Tea Party' to purposefully spite England and Canada. Nevertheless, the twin had abandoned his like of tea after that.

"Right," Canada sighed, deciding to let the comment slide for now. "Anyway, I was supposed to tell you that breakfast is ready and that you should come downstairs if you feel up to it."

America nodded hastily in response, jumping out of bed as the smell of France's cooking filled the house to the point where even his useless nose could sense cinnamon and coffee. He followed Canada out of the room promptly, stretching his aching limbs as they went. Thankfully, after an entire day of spitting up into the toilet and endlessly complaining that he was certain to die from this "totally un-awesome British plague" that England's citizens had passed onto his, the insatiable appetite that frequently resided in America's stomach had returned with vengeance.

The pair jogged down to the kitchen and settled around the table at opposite ends, competing to see who could snatch the carton of orange juice first. After a short scuffle, Canada came out victorious, offering America a smug smile and a "ha!"

England stepped away from the kitchen counter after pouring himself yet another cup of tea, clad in his bathrobe and completely oblivious to the battle that had taken place over the fruit juice. "Good morning, lads. Did you both sleep well?"

"Good morning," Canada replied cheerfully with a cough to clear his throat. "I slept through the entire night without a single interruption from America; it was great."

England allowed himself a lopsided smile before taking a seat next to the Canadian with a small yawn. "And you, America?"

"It was fine," the nation lied steadily. He'd been up all night, staring at the ceiling and praying for some sort of alleviation from his near constant sneezing and sniffling.

England took a sip of tea and settled against the back of his chair, scanning over America's figure critically. "If not for the dark circles under your eyes, I might've been fooled. Not to mention that you've rubbed your nose absolutely raw."

"Thanks for noticing," America ground out sarcastically, shifting a hand through his bedraggled hair. "You know what I learned last night? It's impossible to try to hold your breath to the point that you pass out or die. I probably should've Google searched that before I actually tried it. Turns out that your body senses the change in levels of carbon dioxide in your lungs and sends impulses to your brain that force you to breathe. I read all about it on my iPhone since I obviously wasn't getting any actual sleeping done."

France made a sympathetic noise from his place by the stove and momentarily broke his focus from cooking to place a reassuring hand on America's shoulder. "Do not worry, _mon ami_. I did not sleep well either. Would you like some coffee?"

America nodded gratefully. "Yeah, I think I can hold it down."

Originally, when both France and England had pronounced that they were staying until the twins had made a full recovery, they had arranged to bring theirs and Canada's luggage from the hotel to the house. Eventually, this had led to a problem with the sleeping arrangements, seeing as America's town house only consisted of three bedrooms. Ultimately, England had left France with no choice but to stay on the couch, which had left the Frenchman in a foul mood since his back had been aching from not sleeping in proper bed.

"Your ideas are a little perturbing sometimes," England noted with a pitying look. "You should've woken me, especially if the situation got to the point that you attempted to self-asphyxiate to death."

America sneezed once more, eyes watering even though he was wearing a sheepish smile. He wouldn't have woken England even if he had been legitimately dying—out of good conscience, of course. "Whatever… You needed to sleep too."

"Bless," England said absently before standing from the table and excusing himself from the room for a moment. He returned just as France was setting the plates of food on the table, holding a jar in his hand. He unscrewed the lid and before America could register that the jar was full of Vaseline, England had taken a large glob of it on his finger and was already slathering it onto the irritated skin of America's nose.

He flailed unhappily, scrunching his face up. "Agh! Stop it, England! That stings!"

England clicked his tongue, leaning down slightly to get a better look at his work. "It will help soothe the pain after a few moments. Just relax, and don't be such a big baby."

Canada chuckled from across the table, watching as England decided that America's nose was adequately slicked with Vaseline before capping off the jar once more and washing his hands in the sink. He then returned to his seat at the table without making a fuss over the French toast that had been placed before him. It seemed as though he had decided to try to get along with his rival nation for the twins' sake.

"So, Rudolph, how are the other reindeer holding up?" Canada asked with a mocking smile around his glass of orange juice.

America's eyes grew sharp immediately. "Shut up, Mattie. I wouldn't be laughing if I were you. Looks like you could use some of this stuff as well," he threatened before wiping a bit of the Vaseline off of his nose and lunging at Canada to get the greasy substance on his brother's face as well.

Canada let out a disgruntled squawk followed by another laugh as he dodged America's hand.

"America!" England reprimanded, catching the younger nation's outstretched arm in a vice-grip. "Settle down. And Canada, don't provoke your brother."

"Sorry," Canada hiccuped around another barely suppressed laugh. He quickly dug into his French toast, dropping a strawberry into his mouth before saying, "If you hadn't been so stubborn and had just taken a decongestant like me, you wouldn't have this problem right now."

Ignoring the nagging tone of Canada's voice, America turned his attention to more pressing matters. "Where's my breakfast?" he queried, noticing the lack of a plate before him.

"Here you are, mon lapin," France said before placing a plate of toast in front of America as well as his cup of coffee.

The younger nation quickly noticed the absence of whipped cream, cinnamon, strawberries and blueberries that made up his plate as opposed to his twin's. And, as if seemingly reading the questioning look on America's face, England promptly tried to explain the situation.

"You know that you have a stomach bug on top of the flu, America. Give it another day or so before you start eating regularly again. It's best if you eat your toast plain for now," England reasoned, preparing himself for the look that America was sure to send his way.

The blue eyed nation silently adjusted his glasses and peered at England over his frames, looking as though the man before him had just killed all of his friends and family. He then turned to Canada, grumbling about how unfair it was that the other nation hadn't caught a stomach virus on top of his flu like he had, and then contemplated various ways that he might be able to spread the disease onto him without raising suspicion.

But of course, another sneeze interrupted his conniving plan, sending his body swooping forward as he covered his mouth and nose with both of his hands. He was promptly handed several tissues from England, who seemed to have stockpiled them on his person in case they were necessary. America dabbed carefully at his red nose, sniffling a few more times before returning to his toast.

England gave off an exasperated sigh. "Try not to rub off the Vaseline, or we'll have to keep reapplying it."

"Okay, but I'm doing it myself next time," America insisted, crumpling up the tissues in his fist before sipping at his coffee.

Canada casted America a knowing smile, eyes glinting deviously. "You've always had issues with people touching your face. Remember that time when you had really bad acne?"

America took a vicious bite out of his painfully bland toast. "No, I don't," he hissed through clenched teeth, trying to scare Canada into keeping quiet.

No such luck.

"_Well, I remember,_" Canada emphasized, hoping to get his fair share of revenge after the scuffle over the T.V remote the other day. "You would get really bad breakouts and England would have to put a bunch of herbal salves and warm dressings on your face to help. And then, one night, you told me that—"

"Mattie," America growled warningly, expression darkening as England and France listened on with increasing interest. "You just love taking strolls down memory lane, don't you?"

"—you were afraid that your face would never clear up in time for your—"

America resorted to whining petulantly instead of being threatening. "Mattie!"

"—date with some teenage girl named Hayley. She was two years older than you, physically anyway, and you wanted to impress her. So, you covered your face with makeup from one of the nannies and snuck out of the house even though you were grounded for breaking another one of England's expensive vases."

This time, England interrupted the story to send America a disapproving look. "You did what? And I never found out?"

Meanwhile, France winked at America approvingly. "I always knew that you were secretly a romancer."

America groaned in embarrassment, knowing what was coming next. Soon the whole globe would know that the personification of the United States of America had just recently sprouted from being an insecure teenage boy into a world power.

Suddenly, England shot America a horrified look, utterly bewildered. "Please tell me you didn't have—"

"ENGLAND!" the younger nation screeched, slamming a fist on the table before the elder nation could go any further. "Of course, I didn't! I was only thirteen physically!"

"Right," England muttered in relief, bringing a hand to his head. "Well, children start far earlier than they did in my day, so I just wanted to be sure. I know I raised you to show more respect for women than to—"

"Please, just drop the subject," America pleaded, face and ears burning in humiliation.

Canada continued the delivery of the memory heedlessly. "But you were really lousy at putting on makeup and just ended up looking like there were a bunch of discolored bumps on your face because you just painted your face with a big helping of concealer. You told me that by the end of the night, the makeup was smudged all over your date. She didn't make a big deal out of it, but you came home mortified and complained for hours about how awful puberty was and how you wished you could be an adult already. Since then, your face has been a very sensitive issue."

America's flushed cheeks resembled the state of his nose, occasionally varying in shades of crimson.

"I told you that it would clear up, and I was right. It was just a phase and you never had a problem with it again," England said, relishing in the fact that he'd been right. "You were always one to blow things out of proportion unnecessarily."

America threw down his fork angrily and kicked his chair back. "Excuse me as I go and stick my head in a plastic bag."

Canada chuckled lightly, eyes gleaming with amusement beneath his glasses. "You want me to write your epitaph and obituary?"

America scowled, eyes cold and murderous. "Bro, you better sleep with your eyes open tonight."

France stood from the table as well and took the moment to place a calming hand on America's shoulder. "I think we all need something to brighten the mood, _non_? Maybe you could find us all a movie to watch or a game to play."

America conceded, though still slightly frustrated at his little dysfunctional family. He disappeared into his old storage room after a minute, deciding that any movie he could scavenge would probably lead to a lot of criticism and outbursts in between scenes from the others.

After a moment, he removed an old box from one of the dusty shelves, eyeing the cover carefully.

Nothing could go wrong during a simple game of Monopoly right?

* * *

"How many times do I have to tell you to stop knocking over my piece?"

"Well, maybe if you hadn't chosen the stupid top hat and had picked a decent game piece, then it wouldn't keep overbalancing."

"The top hat is the only figurine worth choosing!"

"America, it's your turn again," Canada reminded, interrupting the side argument taking place between his twin and his older brother.

America took the dice and rolled them, his anger dissipating. "Hah, Community Chest! I got second place in the beauty contest and get to collect ten bucks! I suppose I am pretty fabulous. Miss America ain't got nothin' on this!"

England flinched at America butchering his language, barely managing to bite his tongue to hold back any insulting remarks. He took the dice next, landing on "Park Place", which was unfortunately owned by France.

"Looks like you owe me rent, Angleterre," France winked in delight, outstretching a hand as he waited for England to hand him over the money.

"Bollocks… And you have a hotel on it as well!"

"_Oui_, you owe me fifteen hundred dollars."

England groaned, counting his money and biting his lip in frustration. "I don't have fifteen hundred!"

"Well, I'm sure I can find other ways of getting my payment," France trilled, instigating further conflict.

America merely grinned and patted his older brother/father figure on the back. "Don't worry, England. Being the hero that I am, I could lend you some dough."

"You can't lend him money! That's cheating," Canada stated, glaring.

England shook America's hand off of his back. "I don't want your filthy money anyway. I don't make a habit of racking up debt like you do."

"Ooh," America warbled with a frown. "Cheap shot, old man. Alright, when World War III comes along, don't expect me to hop in and come to the rescue."

"For your information, I was doing just fine on my own during both of the wars."

"Heh, sure you were!"

"Cut the sarcasm!"

"I was just trying to help."

"Not everyone appreciates your bleeding heart."

"Hey, don't hate the player; hate the game!"

"I still need my money!" France sighed, calling everyone to attention.

"England's disqualified because he's bankrupt and doesn't have any property left to sell," Canada announced in a tone of finality, ending the issue.

"I never liked this game anyway," England huffed, throwing down the few hundred dollars he had left and plopping down on the couch dejectedly.

America grinned sympathetically at the older man. "It's alright, dude. I promise to avenge your loss by buying up all your property and kicking these guys to the dirt when I win."

England couldn't help but crack a smile at the goofy look on the American's face as he went on about how the other two figures that were huddled around the board game in concentration didn't stand a chance.

And when America failed to beat France in their final standoff, England tried to cheer him up a bit while his former colony sneezed with such power that the house seemed to rattle on its hinges.

"Bless you, I think it's time for a lunch break. There's leftover soup in the fridge."

"Thanks," America sniffled, voice still nasally as France flaunted his victory to Canada.

Oh, family…

* * *

_Later that same day_

If America stayed cooped up in his room for any longer, he was going to go insane. He needed a taste of some fresh air before he died of cabin fever. So, he decided to come up with a foolproof plan that would allow him to get out of the house for a while without requiring too much of his energy.

The only obstacle now was to convince England and France that he was well enough to take the trip. After a few minutes of debating how to approach the situation, he walked into the living room in a cool and collected manner, stopping in front of England, who was absorbed in some sort of novel.

Forcing his voice to stop sounding so hoarse, he began his plea. "Dude, I think I'm gonna take a trip to the store to get some grub and other stuff."

England peered at America over the top of his book, raising an eyebrow and taking a scrutinizing look at his form before responding. "No, absolutely not. You'll catch your death out there."

America put on his best set of trained puppy-dog eyes. "I'll dress warm. Honestly, England, I feel a lot better than I did during the day of the conference. Besides, I'm tired of sitting around the house all day."

England turned back to his book and flipped the page, sparing America another perusal upon seeing that the young man was being stubborn and probably not going to back down easily. Well, England was stubborn as well, and two could play at that game. "Perhaps tomorrow. The conference was postponed to three days from now and I want you to be well rested and fit to attend by then."

"And then, once it's over, I'll finally have you out of my hair," America grumbled under his breath.

England gave his former colony a reproachful look. "What was that?"

"Nothing," America assured angelically. "I was just saying that it's a shame that you'll be leaving New York soon."

England wasn't buying the act.

"Soooo… About that trip to the store," America tried again, skewing the conversation back on the right course.

"I quite vividly recall saying 'no', Alfred Jones," England replied, giving his final answer in a tone that left no room for an argument. The full human name was never a good sign, and America sighed, knowing he had failed in persuading the man. He was going to be held captive in his own house until further notice.

Then, his savior of the day entered the room.

"Angleterre, it seems there isn't—Oh, Amérique, how are you feeling?" France asked in genuine concern, an empty milk carton in one hand.

This was his chance!

"I'm feeling a lot better, thanks. I could use some fresh air though," he began slowly, ignoring the glare that England sent his way.

France stepped across the length of the room and collected his coat before regarding America empathetically. "Oh, then you can come along with me to the store. It seems that you're out of milk."

America shot England a look that clearly said, "I told you so." The young nation took the opportunity to snatch his coat out of the closet as well, already making his way to the door in a hurry.

"Not so fast!" England called from his spot on the couch. He abandoned his book and stood up, tutting as he caught America at the threshold, who already had slipped into his boots and snagged his car keys off the table.

"Hand over the keys," the green eyed nation demanded, holding out a hand.

"But England!"

"No buts. We've already discussed this issue, and you won't weasel your way out of it by going to France for refuge," England said firmly in the tone that he had always used with America when he had still been a misbehaving colony.

America visibly wilted, handing over the keys without protesting. Even though he was nearly half a foot taller than the other nation, he still felt like the man was towering over him in a scolding manner.

"What's going on in here?" France asked joining the pair at the doorway.

America sidestepped over to France's side, hoping the man would defend his case and protect him from his older brother's wrath. "England won't let me out of the house because he's a worrywart and thinks I'm gonna collapse in the cereal aisle or somethin'."

France smiled in amusement and casted both nations a thoughtful glance. "I doubt that will happen while I'm there with you, but if you're so worried, Angleterre, why don't you come with us? I'm sure Canada would like to get out for a while as well."

"No, that's a bloody awful idea."

France offered America a look that clearly stated that he would take care of the situation, knowing exactly how to make England cave in his dictatorial ways. "Look, even you've become unbearable company after being in this house for so long! Don't be such an old grouch, Angleterre."

"I am not unbearable nor an old grouch! Excuse me for not throwing caution to the wind!" England retorted, obviously offended. "Fine, I'll go with you lot, but when the twins don't recover in time for the meeting, don't expect me to stick around and help!"

America grinned from ear to ear, shouting up the stairs for Canada to get up and join them. "Canada, bro! We're takin' a field trip! Hurry up or we're leavin' you behind!"

England pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation.

What had he gotten himself into?


End file.
